


Sharad

by LostinFic



Category: A Passionate Woman (TV), Spies of Warsaw (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - British Raj, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forbidden Love, India, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Sneaking Around, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2018-12-21 13:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11944938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: Calcutta, 1902. The word ‘dance’ comes to mind, their own choreography of gazes exchanged across the room, brushes of hands and half-spoken confessions. They orbit around each other, destined never to collide it seems; Mercier is upper class, Betty is a governess. And he’s spying on the family whose children she swore to protect.But in this foreign land of spices and silk, of golden gods and lush forests, where cultural norms clash and wane, even destinies must yield to desire.A/N: you don't need to have seen either show.





	1. Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you anon who prompted a Victorian AU that became this, and to my French anon for inspiration.
> 
> Warnings: drinking, smoking, kids because Betty is a governess. That's all I can think of for now, feel free to contact me on tumblr if you have any concerns :)
> 
> Beta for the first half: Fadewithfury 
> 
> Writing a fic set in another era and in another country and culture is quite a challenge. It's a huge country, there is more than one Indian culture (which I know is not limited to "The Kama Sutra"). Moreover, the Europeans were there for almost 400 years. I did some research, of course, but I don’t pretend to be an expert on these subjects. I chose to focus on the characters and the love story, and not to address certain topics that I didn't fully grasp. That seemed like the most respectful thing to do, but I can see why some people would think otherwise. I did my best, within the limitations of my characters' POV. (Also I hate the trope of the white person who is somehow so much more "woke" than all his contemporaries and helps out the poor natives.)That said, if you find any harmful stereotypes or anything that implies colonialism was a good thing in my writing, please let me know privately so I can correct it. 
> 
> I think that's it. Enjoy!

__

_Calcutta, August 1902_

As soon as Mercier exited the _Raj Bhavan_ and stepped out from under the shade of the portico, the sun assaulted him. He tugged at his stiff high collar. It wouldn’t last, leaded clouds loomed on the horizon.

Monsoon season was almost over, the violent showers now few and far inbetween, giving way to the more tolerable days of _Sharad Ritu_ , the fourth season of the Hindu calendar with the autumnal equinox as its midpoint.

Mercier walked towards the river Hoogly, intent on enjoying the city before having to shut himself indoors because of the heat.

Early morning was the busiest moment of the day. Even before sunrise, natives and foreigners alike took advantage of the cooler temperature to conduct their business. The clocks had barely struck nine when Mercier left the government house, having approved a transit between Calcutta and the French territory of Pondichéry.

He navigated between sweetmeat sellers, water carriers and liveried _chaprassis_ , and beasts too, as numerous as humans, oxen pulling carts, gharry horses wearing blue beads and sacred bulls eating marigolds. Dust rose under their hoofs. And the smell of them reminded him of the stables on his estate, in a much quieter part of the world. How incongruous to find something so familiar halfway around the globe, and that such a foul smell should make him smile.

He reached the shore and stared absentmindedly into the flow, brown waters, a shade like _café au lait_ , stirring memories of lazy Sunday mornings with his wife.

Mercier shook his head free of these melancholy thoughts, and instead settled his attention on the large steps descending into the river. No, not the colour of _café au lait_ but of chai masala. Locals and pilgrims bathed there, washing clothes and cattle. The thrum of women’s gossip and fakir’s prayers reached his ears. A couple knotted their robes together and dipped side by side as a little boy priest showered them with petals.

In every city he’d lived in there had been such a river. The social and commercial center of the city, bustling with activity and yet nothing appeased him like walking along the banks. The Seine, the Thames, the Danube, the Vistula, the Rhine… And once again his mind wandered with the river, joining the Ganges and flowing to the Bay of Bengal and into the Indian Ocean; the same route he’d arrived in this country.

His steps took him towards the port where the wind impregnated the great white sails of the P&O ships.

He did not miss France per se, but his freedom. Always an independent spirit despite his military career, he went from one European capital to the next, to spy or fight, taking unpaid leave when things didn’t go his way. India had promised such liberty. But after four years, the close-knit community felt claustrophobic. The occasional mission kept him on his toes, but he’d imagined a work far less administrative.

He’d missed another _Exposition Universelle_ and the summer olympics in Paris. He’d thought about leaving India before. But this country always had a new marvel in store to convince him to stay a while longer. Whenever melancholy had swept over him before, he’d discover a new sport, new food, new landscape to remind him there was much left to discover and enjoy. What would it be this time?

Anyway, he had an important assignment to complete before he could take his leave.

Mercier stared into the waters again. There were no steps here, but a steep wall, four feet above sea level, that dived into the river. Waves broke against the stone and a refreshing salty mist sprayed his face.

“Oliver Douglas Wigram, come back here!”

Mercier perked up at the name; Lord Wigram was part of his assignment, someone to report on, but he had yet to secure an invitation to his home.

“Oliver! It’s dangerous!”

A woman, Lady Wigram he assumed, ran and shouted, holding up her yellow skirts. A little boy, no more than four years old, ran past Mercier, giggling as he glanced over his shoulder at his pursuer.

Out of nowhere, a donkey headbutted the boy, sending him into the port’s deep waters. Mercier froze, agape. Oliver resurfaced, gesticulating wildly to keep himself afloat. Mercier started removing his jacket. He barely had one arm out that the woman dived straight into the river, her hat flying off behind her.

The strong current dragged Oliver away. Lady Wigram swam steadily to him. Mercier ran along the edge, trying to catch up, preparing to jump. Water swallowed the boy, and she dived under. His heart stopped as they disappeared, but she emerged with the child in her arms.

She was a good swimmer but her layers of clothes and corset would weigh her down. They didn’t need a third person in there but something to pull them out. He grabbed a thick rope, unwinding it from around a post, and threw it at them. It fell too far.

With one arm around the crying boy, the woman had trouble keeping her head out of the water. Mercier threw the rope a second time. It landed right beside them, and she grabbed it immediately. With the help of other men who’d witnessed the incident, Mercier pulled them out of the river.

An old sepoy caught Oliver, and Mercier hoisted Lady Wigram by her underarms. He laid her on the ground and knelt beside her. Brown curls stuck to her face, and he wiped them off as she coughed water. Her breath was short and laboured, her eyes wide and panicked. She clawed at her dress, and he realized what she needed. Running his fingers over her torso, he located, under the fabric, the front hooks of her corset. With some fiddling, he managed to free her. As soon as she could breathe properly, she looked around, searching for the boy.

“He’s here, my lady, he’s alive.”

She crawled to the boy. Oliver safe in her arms, she sagged with relief against Mercier’s chest. He couldn’t help but close his arms around them.

“Shhh. You’re fine, you’re safe,” he whispered to soothe the lady’s tears.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, pulling away and wiping her nose on her sleeve.

“There is nothing to be sorry about. Can you stand up?” he asked after a moment.

She nodded, and he helped her up to her feet. The old sepoy offered to get them a carriage. They sat on a bench near the road to wait for it.

“Oh, my Lord! Thank you for saving us. Thank you,” she said. “Oh, where’s me head at, I didn’t even ask your name.”

“Colonel Jean-François Mercier. It’s a pleasure to meet you Lady Wigram.” He kissed the back of her hand.

“Oh. I’m not lady Wigram.”

“I heard you say the boy’s name, I assumed…”

“I’m just the governess.”

“A pleasure all the same. And your name?”

“Betty Salinger, sir.”

“A governess? You do not look like one.” He looked pointedly at her colourful promenade dress.

She sniffled as she fingered a muddied lace trim. “It’s me— my day off,” she explained

She looked at her ward, but didn’t express discontentment at his presence on her day off. She attempted to clean his face with her soaked handkerchief, and Mercier offered his own. It didn’t do any good, the child still looked a right mess, soaked to the bones with a runny nose and one shoe lost.

“Her ladyship will kill me dead.”

At that, Oliver’s lip wobbled and his eyes welled up again.

“Oh, no, no, sweetheart, don’t worry, I didn’t mean like that.”

“Because you saved her son?”

“I let him run off.”

“Children will do that. The donkey pushed him.”

Betty nodded, but worry lines still bracketed her mouth. The poor woman was dishevelled, her chignon slid halfway down her hair, and her corset still gaped under her dress.

“Perhaps if your clothes were clean and dry, the accident might not appear so severe.” He pulled a dead leaf out of her hair.

“Is it that bad?”

“We could stop by my house so you might fix your appearance and the boy’s, and dry your clothes.”

Her wide, uncertain eyes settled on him, mouth slightly agape. “Is that proper, sir?”

“Oh, of course, my apologies… My sister will be there.”

She relaxed. “Yeah, if you would be so kind, it might make matters better.”

*

The carriage stopped in front of a large white stucco house with a classical portico. Above the entrance, hung a French flag, the heat had caused the blue and red dyes to bleed on the white middle.

Taking in the size of the building, Betty’s eyes widened and shifted between Mercier and the house.

“It is not all for me. It doubles as the French consulate,” Mercier said. “The west side is offices and guest rooms.”

“There are people in there?” She crossed her arms to cover herself.

“Come this way, I will make sure no one sees you.”

He guided her around the house to a side entrance.

Oliver was getting impatient, clinging to Betty and demanding to go home, but he stopped whining as soon as he saw Mercier’s two pointer dogs. His giggles and the dogs’ soft barks attracted Gabrielle to the room. Back from calling on a friend, she removed her gloves and feathered hat.

“Have you gone fishing, brother?” she teased as she eyed their soaked guests.

Mercier introduced his younger sister and explained the situation.

Gabrielle promptly put an arm around Betty’s shoulders. “Good heavens, what a fright you must have had. Come with me, we will find you something dry to wear. Jean-François, please have the cook prepare something.”

He watched the three of them walk up the stairs with an odd pinch to his heart. He could trust his sister to take good care of them. No doubt Gabrielle’s congeniality would soothe Betty’s nerves better than he could. But it felt wrong to let them out of his sight. Of course, he couldn’t follow, Betty was about to undress. Not that he was averse to witness that.

Clucking his tongue at his own silliness, Mercier headed for his rooms. He changed out of his clothes, damp from holding Betty, trading the layers of jacket, waistcoat and cravat for a loose linen shirt.

He unlocked his roll top secretary and sifted through files for the one on Lord Wigram.

Douglas Wigram had been doing business in India for over a decade but only moved permanently to the country eighteen months ago. Although his business partners worked mainly in Bombay, he now lived in Calcutta, on the eastern side of the country. He had made enemies in Bombay, amongst which trade partners from the French territories of Mahé and Pondichéry. Rodier, the Governor General of French colonies, had put him on the list of potential enemies who believed India should be united under the British crown.

By taking Oliver back home, Mercier might meet Lady or Lord Wigram and perhaps secure an invitation for some upcoming gathering at their house. From then on, it would be easier to assess if Wigram was a threat.

After stopping by the kitchens, Mercier joined the women on the white marble verandah. In the corner, a _punkah wallah_ with a string attached to his toe stirred a large cloth fan suspended from the ceiling on a wooden frame.

Betty was sat on a reclined Planter’s chair, and, standing behind her, Gabrielle braided their guest’s long brown hair. Both wore loose muslin wrappers, strictly speaking these garments were dressing gowns, but had been widely adopted as day wear in India, perfect for the heat if not quite appropriate to entertain company. Gabrielle tied the end of the braid with a ribbon and laid it over Betty’s shoulder. Water from its tip seeped into the white fabric and a wet ring grew above her breast. She noticed and swept the braid behind her, but Mercier’s gaze lingered on the sheer spot, then on her delicate sun-kissed collar bones. She clutched the fabric on her chest self-consciously, and he averted his eyes immediately.

He cleared his throat and turned to the bar caddy, chiding himself for ogling her. The poor woman was stuck between borderline indecency in the company of strangers and the wrath of Lady Wigram. Yet the light tan of her skin told him it was not her first time out of the house wearing little.

“Brandy?” He offered Betty a glass which she accepted but didn’t bring to her lips.

“None for me?” Gabrielle complained as she sat down on a large cushion.

“Only for those who have rescued someone today,” he replied, drinking from his own glass. “How are you feeling miss Salinger?”

“Better, thanks,” she answered, eyes downcast.

“In this sun, your clothes will be dry in no time,” Gabrielle assured her.

Mercier turned his attention to the garden below. The chirping of blue-breasted quails and Himalayan flamebacks made him search for their colourful plumage amongst the garden shrubs.

“What kind is that?” Gabrielle asked pointing at a small bird with iridescent feathers perched on a palm tree.

“A sunbird, I believe, green-tailed.”

“My brother loves birds and all wild animals,” Gabrielle said. “Do you love nature and animals, miss Salinger?”

“Oh yes!” She covered her mouth, tampering down her own enthusiasm straight away.

“The wildlife of India is marvellous, don’t you think?” Gabrielle insisted.

“The flowers are beautiful, I shall never tire of walking in the Wigrams’ garden.”

“How nice. You love the flora and my brother loves the fauna.”

It’s only out of respect that Mercier didn’t roll his eyes at his sister’s matchmaking attempt. Gabrielle was all but married to Armand, and, before leaving her brother, she endeavoured to find him a companion.

“Do you hunt, Colonel?” Betty asked.

“I have been on a few expeditions.”

“Have you ever killed a tiger? I hear they are terribly dangerous and bloodthirsty.”

“I saw some last year. I was invited to a hunt with a few generals and lords at the domain of the Maharaja of Surguja. They are magnificent creatures, but I did not kill any.”

When their party had arrived in the forest, servants had already baited and drugged the tigers. There was no danger, and certainly no honour, to killing them. So as not to insult his esteemed colleagues, he’d held his tongue and pretended to miss his mark.

“His lordship made a carpet out of the first one he caught,” Betty said. “I always walk around it.”

He smiled at her, and she averted her eyes.

“How is the boy doing?” he asked.

They looked at Oliver, chasing after the dogs.

“Brave lad, he had quite the adventure… oh, what’s the point of fixing me dress, he’ll tell her ladyship everything anyway.”

“He seems quite taken with the dogs, perhaps it’s all he shall remember,” Gabrielle said.

“Let’s hope so.”

Truth be told, Mercier worried more about the dogs than the boy, he was now pulling at their tails and ears.

“Achille. Céleste,” he called.

The dogs joined him, Oliver on their heels. Mercier showed him how to pet and play with them.

“You don’t have to do that,” Betty said, “I should take care of him.”

“It’s your day off, is it not?”

She didn’t voice another objection, instead leaning back and taking a sip of brandy.

“He was lucky you know how to swim. It’s quite rare amongst young women,” Mercier commented. When she offered no explanation, he asked, “where did you learn?

“Me father, sir.”

“Did you live near the water?”

“No.”

He wondered if her reluctance to speak stemmed from shock or shyness. To put her at ease, he told her of a river, near his family’s estate in Boutillon where he used to swim. No more than two-feet deep, but still his mother had forbid him to go. “So of course, I went there every occasion I had.”

“And I followed,” Gabrielle added. “Even after you left, I kept going.”

“Not by yourself, I expect.”

“I always managed to find some company…”

He smiled indulgently at his sister. She used to tease the village boys mercilessly. They did anything she asked as long as they believed they had a chance with her, which, in actuality, they never had. One of them received the scold of a lifetime for bringing her tobacco.

He rolled a cigarette and handed it to his sister. She never smoked in public, etiquette forbade it, but he wanted to check Betty’s reaction. A sort of moral test, to assess if he could use her to spy on Lord Wigram. Betty frowned at Gabrielle exhaling smoke, but he thought it was more from curiosity than judgement. _Interesting_.

A servant brought a platter of _jalebi_ , deep fried curls of batter dipped in sugar syrup and saffron. Oliver dashed to the plate, grabbing one _jalebi_ in each hand.

“Slow down, sweetheart, don’t spoil your lunch.”

But the adults were as eager as the kid. They emptied the platter in no time, the crystallized exterior crunched under their teeth, and they hummed with delight, sucking their greasy fingertips. Colour returned to Betty’s face, cheeks flushed, her lips tinted gold with saffron, and glistening from the sweet oil. He caught her eyes as her tongue darted to the corners of her mouth. For the first time, she didn’t look away.

“Me granddaddy did, live by the water I mean, near the Eccup reservoir in Leeds,” she said.

“And that is where you learned to swim?” Gabrielle asked.

“Yeah... We went there in the summers,” she added, gaining a little confidence. “Daddy was in the Navy. He knew water can be dangerous, but he didn’t want us to be afraid of it.”

“You certainly were not afraid of it today,” Mercier said.

“Wish I’d stayed longer in the water, it was quite refreshing,” she admitted, hiding a laugh behind her hand.

That made him smile. Perhaps it could be arranged, he’d heard of some rivers one could swim in just outside the city. He refilled their glasses of brandy, offering one to his sister this time.

“How long have you two been in India?” Betty enquired.

“I arrived fours years ago, and Gabrielle joined me a year later. You know what they say, women come to India for two reasons: because they are married to empire builders or because they want to be.”

“I will hear no such thing, Jean-François! It may be unladylike, but I came here because I wanted to see India.”

“And you prefer piano players to empire builders,” he replied, referring to Armand.

“Hush!” She poked him with her toes. “And you Betty, why did you come here? Looking for the perfect man?”

“The only interest I have in men, is making a good one out of Oliver.”

“I like her, brother, you should rescue governesses more often.”

Realizing what she’d said, Betty blushed and glared at her glass of brandy. “As good a man as his lordship, I mean… I should go, we will be late for _tiffin_. Come on sweetheart.”

“I want the doggie,” the child replied, hugging Achille’s neck.

Betty gently pried him away.

“You can come back to see them again,” Mercier said impulsively, earning a surprised look from Gabrielle.

While Betty and Oliver put on their now dry clothes, Mercier had the driver prepare the buggy. He put on a waistcoat and jacket again, and fixed his hair to make a good impression on the Wigrams.

Although Betty and Oliver looked in better shape, their outfits were still the worse for wear. It saddened him to see her smile now turn into a frown.

“Thank you for your help, Colonel, but I’m afraid it will not do much good.”

Mercier’s ancestors had been knights, and he found nothing awakened the chivalry in his blood like the distress in Betty’s doe eyes.

“Let me take you home and talk to Lady Wigram. I will tell her it’s my fault.”

“I appreciate it, sir, but why would you do that for me?”

“Yes, why would you do that?” Gabrielle echoed.

He could not reveal he wished to make the Wigrams’ acquaintance to spy on them. But he didn’t have to take the blame for that. The truth was he couldn’t stomach any criticism coming to Betty when she’d so bravely jumped in the water before he had even gathered his own courage to do so.

*

As they neared the house, Betty chewed harder on her bottom lip and wrung her hands in her lap. She fussed over the child’s appearance. “Oliver, sweetheart, what did we do this morning?”

“I played with doggies.”

“Yes, exactly, that’s what we did. All morning. We played with the dogs. Do you remember their names?” And she kept on asking about the dogs, to make sure it was all the boy would talk about.

Arrived at the house, Betty had hoped to slip under the radar but Lady Wigram was in the hall. She was a good looking woman, but her pale skin, droopy eyelids and oddly slow demeanour gave the impression she was permanently drowsy.

She took in their clothes and asked: “Good Heavens, what has happened?”

“I fell in the river,” Oliver said before running off to his room.

“My horse pushed him,” Mercier said right away, “it was frightened when the boy came running. Miss Salinger was with him. He fell in a stream, hardly a river, and—”

“You let him run off?” Lady Wigram spoke daintily, but accusation and contempt spiked her words.

“I— I’m sorry… the horse and…”

“She immediately jumped in too, to grab the boy, most courageously.”

Lady Wigram huffed and sent Betty to her room. “You cannot possibly eat lunch in this state.”

Betty’s eyes welled up, and, shoulders bowed, she walked away. As he watched her disappear up the stairs, there was again that odd pinch to Mercier’s heart.

“Really, madam, miss Salinger is not to blame.”

“There is no need for that, Colonel.” She looped her arm through his, guiding him to the front room. “The girl is a lost cause, but my husband knew her father and he’s sentimental, you know how these things go. We make do with her flaws, poor girl.”

Mercier ground his teeth.

*

When he returned home, Gabrielle was waiting for him at the dining room table. He knew that amused glint in her eyes, and only reluctantly sat down with her.

“You like her,” she said in French with that teasing lilt.

“I need her. I have to learn more about Lord Wigram’s business in Calcutta.”

“So you are using her to be in the Wigrams’ good graces.”

“Exactly.”

“Hm.”

“… What is it?”

“And how does taking the blame achieve that?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it have been better to present yourself as a hero, or to at least side with Lady Wigram on staff’s incompetence?” Although she’d formulated her sentences as questions, he knew she was only mocking him by stating the obvious.

“It worked—” he showed an invitation to a dinner party at the Wigrams’— “it’s all that matters. I can complete my last assignment.”

And with that mission done, he would be able to leave India. The governess was his ticket out… or the marvel that would make him stay another while longer.


	2. Observing

Betty sat on a Persian rug in a corner of the makeshift classroom and read to her pupils, Victoria and Winifred (Oliver’s older sisters). A story from a book of Indian tales was their reward after a long morning of grammar and embroidery.

A breeze, increasingly warm with each gust, fluttered the curtains and the hand-drawn maps tacked to the walls. Fine dust shimmered in the air and alighted on the table and bookcase. Betty wiped the page and continued reading: “The beautiful Kailash mountains were a breathtaking sight and it never failed to impress Parvathi. And after her marriage with Shiva, living with Shiva, his Ganas and his sages, Parvathi loved the place more. She smiled as she looked around the snow-clad mountains and knew that this would be the case, always.” Betty paused. “Victoria, how do you spell ‘mountains’?”

“M-o... u-n-t-a-i-n-s?”

“Very good. Do you want to read the next sentence?”

The nine-year-old took the book from her governess and read slowly, hesitating on the foreign names. “Jaya and Vijaya, the two guards of Goddess Parvathi were speaking with her. ‘How is Kailash?’ they asked her. Parvathi smiled unable to stop herself. Her smile saying a lot more than she ever could--”

“Pardon,” came a voice from the doorway. 

Betty’s heart jumped at the sight of Mercier standing there. Since their first encounter last week, she’d convinced herself his handsomeness was but a trick of her mind, exaggerated by the fact he’d saved her-- it wasn’t.

“You smile like Pavarthi,” Victoria said.

“Why don’t you keep reading,” Betty said, standing up to meet Mercier. She dusted chalk off her black skirt, there was no mistaking her for a lady today.

“Colonel, what are you doing here?”

“I think I got lost on my way back to Lord Wigram’s study.” 

“It’s on the first floor.” They were on the second.

“I know.”

Her smile vanished. If anyone caught him around here, she would be blamed. “You should not be here.” She stepped out of the classroom and explained to him how to reach the ground floor.

“I’m not sure I understand the way. Would you guide me there?” he asked. 

She hesitated, glancing between him and the children several times, assessing the risks of being alone with him.

“I am sorry for bothering you, miss Salinger, I should not have asked.”

And that’s what settled the issue. “Wait. It is not a problem, sir. Girls, I will be back in a moment.”

She guided him towards the staff quarters, where they wouldn’t run into Lady Wigram. A somewhat inappropriate route perhaps, but so had their first meeting been. 

Like most houses built by colonialist architects, the rooms were wide and high-ceilinged with jalousie windows above the doors for optimal air circulation— but so did voices travel. And their footsteps echoed between the walls of sparsely furnished rooms and corridors.

Once they’d rounded a corner, he said, “If I may say so, miss Salinger, I am glad to have run into you today.”

“You are?”

“Why else would I be wandering the second floor?”

“Oh.” She was so surprised, she forgot to mind the step at the end of the hall and tripped. Mercier caught her by the arms and steadied her. 

“Easy there. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, sorry, God, this is embarrassing. I walk by here twenty times a day, I swear.” She giggled from nerves. 

Mercier’s hands remained on her, thumbs rubbing her arms. Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other. 

A door banged shut, and Betty jumped away from him. They resumed walking.

“You read Indian folk tales to the girls?” he asked after a few steps. “It is not the usual curriculum, I presume.”

“His lordship allowed it,” she quickly corrected. “We study Grimm and Lafontaine, too, and English history.”

“I think it’s a good idea. Children should know more about the country they live in. And I could say the same of adults.”

Betty relaxed. “It has helped them get used to living here. To imagine the country is full of marvelous, magic creatures.”

“I don’t know about magic, but marvelous certainly.”

She looked out a tall window, at the city, stretching far beyond the undulating heat of the horizon, studded with the white turrets and gilded domes of mosques and palatial mansions, like something out of a fairytale. 

She’d slowed down, and Mercier too, a few steps ahead, observing her. The way he seemed to analyse her, and others, both flattered and unsettled her. Most people cast judgements too quickly, but what did he hope to discover?

“What were you thinking about?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

“How have you been, since the accident?”

The mention of the incident at the river made her stomach sink. The Wigrams still didn’t know how close their son had come to losing his life, or else she would surely be on the street right now. Thankfully, they’d chalked up the severity of Oliver’s recollections to his young age and shock. Only Mercier and his sister knew the truth. 

“I’m fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And Oliver, how is he?”

“He’s fine too, sir.”

“Yes?… no fear?”

“No. All fine.” She smiled politely.

Was he genuinely concerned or reminding her of his power over her?

She was thankful, of course, more than words could express, that he had saved her life and Oliver’s. And he’d taken such good care of them afterwards. But now that he’d brought up the incident, she couldn’t shake the thought that it came at a cost. What would he ask for in return for his help and silence? 

She increased the space between them, and hurried down a flight of stairs.

“Second door on your right,” she indicated, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

“I… okay. Thank you, miss Salinger.”

She waited until he’d entered Lord Wigram’s study, and tiptoed farther down the corridor to hide beside a potted palm and spy on him.

She could see him clearer now without her head spinning with anxiety like it had on their first meeting. She saw his good looks, yes, but also the markers of his social status: his bespoke suit of fine linen, so precisely sewn to his lean frame-- she thought of the tailor, running his tape across the width of his shoulders, down his steel rod of a spine, wrapping it around his chest. The ratios of him. Revealing the asymmetries. The flaws in his seemingly imperturbable self-possession. Even his hair, curling like sweet pea vines, was constrained neatly with pomade, a reminder of his military grade and all that came with it. 

She wanted to mess his hair.

But this was the image he presented in public. Sitting on the verandah with him and Gabrielle, she’d felt like Fanny Price with the Crawford siblings. Both of them so beautiful and worldly, but with a hint of something dissipated. An impression they didn’t care about social conventions as much as others. Their banter, the brandy, the cigarettes, and their appraising gaze on her. She didn’t trust it. And she trusted even less what it aroused in her.

*

_Two weeks later_

“Please avoid going anywhere near the port,” Lady Wigram said as she watched Betty and the girls button their boots.

“Yes, your ladyship,” Betty replied, forcing a smile over her clenched teeth.

Lady Wigram never missed a chance to mention the incident at the river. What would it be if she knew the whole truth about it? It took all of Betty’s self-control not to remind her ladyship that it would not have happened had she not insisted Oliver left the house with Betty on her day off. But that would only bring up the fact that Oliver preferred the governess to Lady Wigram, his step-mother. That morning he had thrown a tantrum, refusing to stay home when Betty was leaving, and pushing off Lady Wigram’s attempt at comforting him.

Betty wasn’t even supposed to take care of Oliver, he had a nanny, Samaira. Betty had been employed to teach his older sisters. So, while their brother took his morning nap, the three young women left the house for an airing.

Betty took them to the Maidan, an open public space thrice the size of Hyde Park in London and thrice as crowded. 

Lace parasols balanced on their shoulders, they threaded amongst the colourful mass of natives and foreigners. Married women in vibrant saris with bangles clinking on their wrists, red _sindoor_ parted their hair and dotted their foreheads. A contrast to the white-decked widows accompanying them. Brown-skinned men, their legs sticking out of dhoti shorts, walked barefoot on the trampled lawn. 

Victoria dropped a rupee in the begging bowl of an orange-wrapped buddhist monk. 

Plenty of Europeans miled the Maidan too, men in linen sack suits and straw boater hats, they walked to the _Raj Bhavan_ or the Royal Turf Club. Soldiers, their khaki turbans or pith helmets visible above other heads. The smoke of their _cheroot_ , a taste like old paper and rich earth burning, caught in Betty’s throat, and she coughed. They didn’t noticed or apologize, too busy staring at ladies parading-- the “fishing fleet” as they were known, unmarried British women sent by their parents to find husbands. Betty envied their pretty calico dresses, her only nice one hadn’t quite survived the dive into the river. Nothing but white waistshirts and plain skirts left for her. 

Betty used to fear this teeming place, with its grain sellers hailing passersby, potbellied children running amok and numerous grunting beasts. This deluge of life, coming in waves of laughter and cries, disoriented her. In fact, her first two months in India, she hadn’t step foot outside their house’s garden walls. She’d gathered her courage for the sake of the children. Now, a year later, although she still preferred a quiet corner of the garden, she navigated the crowd with some confidence, and she longed to discover more of the city and of the country. Unfortunately, opportunities to make such discoveries were scarce for an unmarried, working woman.

In the shade of a neem tree, a servant spread out a blanket on the ground for them to sit. The girls took out their sketch pads. From their spot, the busy park offered a wide variety of subjects.

Winifred preferred to draw animals and focused on an emaciated pi-dog lounging by the tank. At six years old, her depiction was rather cartoonish so Betty helped her finesse the animal’s shape, pointing out the shadows of its ribs. But Winifred was always more interested in drawing things from her imagination than reality, and Betty gave up and let her enjoy it.

Victoria, on the other hand, attempted to capture the movements of stick dancers. She had an eye for it that would suit pastels more than pencil. Their next lesson perhaps. 

After a moment, Betty opened her own pad to draw the long stems of white blossoms drooping from the branches above them. Clusters of tiny five-petaled flowers, as white and translucent as moonstone. A warm breeze stirred a lilac-y fragrance from them. She thought of England in the spring.

They drew without a word. The clank of the dancers’ wooden sticks and the occasional monkey screech pierced the hum of multilingual chatter around them. 

“There is Colonel Mercier again,” Victoria said.

 _Again_. He had become a regular guest of the Wigrams. Every visit, he tried to catch her gaze or to “accidentally” meet her in the corridor. At first, she had chalked it up to her imagination, but the children noticed it too. It only strengthened her first impression that he didn’t care for social conventions and wanted something from her.

“Miss Salinger, how nice to see you.”

And there it was, on his polite smile, the shadow of a bawdy smirk.

Betty offered a thin-lipped smile, keeping her hands clasped behind her back, away from his lips. 

“And you, Colonel.”

“How are you?”

“Fine. We came to the park for a drawing lesson.”

He glanced at the girls and the servant. “And their parents?”

“At home, sir.”

“May I beg the favour of a word with you?”

Etiquette dictated she should agree, and so they took a few steps away. 

Betty decided to cut to the chase. Her mouth was dry and her voice uncertain when she asked: “What do you want from me?”

“Pardon?”

“I would rather you reveal the truth about the accident to his lordship than have to… to do _something_ in exchange for your silence.”

Mercier’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You think I want to blackmail you? I… apologize if I gave you that impression, but you are mistaken about my character.” 

He laughed, and she huffed.

“Well, what else can it be?”

“I like you, miss Salinger. I find myself… curious about you.” 

That possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. Her brow knitted in confusion. “But… I’m just a governess.”

“So?”

“Well, I have no illusions as to the kind of men who flirt with girls like me. Now if you would excuse me, I need to get back to the children.”

“Woman.”

“What?”

“A _woman_ like you. You are not a girl.”

The leer she expected didn’t come, he kept his eyes on her face, an open, steady gaze that made her knees wobble. 

“Good day, sir.”

She’d barely taken two steps away, that clouds ripped open above her. She hid under the nearest tree, but so did Mercier. She waved and smiled to Winifred and Victoria to reassure them.

Fat drops landed like cannonballs on the dry ground, splashing soil and digging thousands of tiny craters until it looked like a sponge. The smell of wet grass rose in the air. The tree branches’ width barely shielded them both, and allowed them only an inch of space to stand apart. The hair on her arm stood on end as if to bridge the gap between Mercier’s body and hers. She stared at the fabric of his suit, and wondered how it would feel against her cheek. She’d been good for over four years, didn’t she deserve a hug? She wanted him but didn’t trust him. And in her position, she couldn’t afford a mistake.

“You are wrong about me, miss,” he said above the drum of drops on leaves.

“Your behaviour indicates otherwise.”

His sigh brushed against the crown of her hair. Not an exasperated sigh, no, but doleful. Was she too hard on him? Could he really like her? She chanced a glance up at him, and he caught her.

“You have been deceived before,” he observed.

She turned her head away and, after a moment of hesitation, dashed under the rain to join her pupils.

Mercier stayed on her mind all day. She wavered between pride at putting him in his place, and doubt about his true intentions.

_“I like you, miss Salinger. I find myself… curious about you.”_

Could it really be as simple as that? An innocent interest. Or an unvirtuous one? There was only one way to find out.

*

Mercier saw Betty two more times in the following week, in the street and at the theater. Never alone. Both times he nodded politely and kept his distance, hoping to prove his honest intentions.

The Wigrams had invited him and his sister to a luncheon. He’d slipped out of the dining room knowing his sister would provide an excuse should his absence be noticed. 

“Did you find her?” Gabrielle asked in French when he came back.

“It’s not what you think. I wanted to go into Wigram’s study but the door is locked.”

Gabrielle gave him her trademark “I’m not buying it” look.

“And if I happened to see miss Salinger on the way, well…”

She smiled victoriously, but Mercier sighed.

“If only I had a chance to talk to her. To explain. To prove her wrong.”

“Is this really about her or your hurt ego?”

He swirled the brandy in his glass, mulling her question over. “What do you think?”

“I think, I have never seen you pursue a woman with such determination.”

“I am not putting that much effort. Am I?”

“Still more than usual. Do not deny you are coming here often.”

“There is the business with Wigram too.”

“I know, but I’m glad you found someone worth pursuing.”

“It is not my ego… not entirely. The fact that she would confront me like that, I think it has made me like her more.”

“You are a masochist, brother.”

Gabrielle joined the other ladies, and Mercier stepped out, into the back yard. The English had imported their gardening style, so wild compared to the geometry and asymmetry of French gardens. Borders overflowed and vines climbed ambitiously. With the worse of the monsoon over, plants now bloomed like lazy fireworks, an abundance of frangipanis, jasmine and dahlias. A feast for the senses he indulged in for mere minutes before his sister’s words drew his attention away.

“ _Someone worth pursuing._ ”

In Calcutta, flirting and dalliances were prime forms of entertainment. But Mercier had no interest in that sort of intrigue. He had quite enough in his work. He liked women who were forthright about their desires. They sought attention or satisfaction. Sometimes revenge on an unfaithful husband. For they were always married or widows, women who could afford an affair and its consequences should there be any. It had not been the case so far. They didn’t expect more beyond an afternoon or a handful of nights. Dead ends. Yet, once or twice, when the affair had come to its inevitable end, a sort of melancholy had overcome him. Perhaps he needed more. 

He couldn’t blame his regular presence here only on the importance of his mission, when seeking Betty jeopardized that very mission.

Giggles alerted him to the children’s presence. He followed the sound and found Betty chasing the kids around a magnolia tree. She laughed and smiled openly, and he envied the children with whom she was so carefree. So far, he’d caught only glimpses of her true character, and he wished they could jump over the social conventions that made her hide it, and go straight to being familiar. He wanted to know her and be known by her. 

Betty caught him staring and shut down like an oyster. She stopped running, looked down, buttoned up her collar. But then, a shy glance, a quirk at the corner of her mouth. He stood immobile, waited patiently for more. A flutter of her eyelashes. He followed her lead, his own smile growing as hers did. She looked into his eyes, and it zinged through him, like an arrow from the blue-skinned god Rama.

She licked and bit her bottom lip. _I’m in_. He smirked, it escaped him this flirty smile, the kind he gave certain women who made their desire known. It made her laugh, she threw her head back, displayed her throat. She shook her head and took off to catch a child.

Mercier returned to the gentlemen in the drawing room with a spring in his steps.

“Have you made any progress this afternoon?” Gabrielle enquired on their way back home, hours later.

“On one front. Captain Moore was only too happy to gossip about Lord Wigram’s trouble in Bombay. Rodier will be pleased with my report.”

“Good. And the other front?”

Mercier shrugged with a frown and dipped into his jacket pocket for his cigarette case. Betty had smiled back, it was progress he supposed, but not enough. He flipped opened the golden case, a note was laid on top of the cigarettes: “ _I’m curious about you too”_.

He grinned. “There’s hope for the other front.” 


	3. Meeting

Douglas Wigram grumbled as his pen kept slipping from his pudgy hand. Mercier peered at him over his two months-old _Le Figaro_ (news travelled slowly to India). 

“Something the matter, Wigram?”

“You French and your bloody paperwork.” 

Mercier chuckled, he was starting to enjoy Wigram’s company— unfortunately. He went back to reading about the relations between president Émile Loubet and the new king, Edward VII. 

“How long will it take?” Wigram asked.

“It depends on how fast you can write.”

“No, I mean, the payment.” He blotted his large, sunburnt forehead with an handkerchief. 

“I don’t know, I am only in charge of diplomatic relations,” Mercier replied. He wanted to ask if he had financial troubles, but couldn’t do it so bluntly. 

Lord Wigram wanted to rekindle his business relationship with the French, unaware that Mercier knew all about the people he’d defrauded in Bombay. If Douglas was experiencing money problems, he might be tempted to pull the same tricks he had back then. However, Mercier had yet to find concrete evidence of ill intentions.

Mercier turned the question of financial troubles in his mind to find a tactful formulation, but footsteps in the hall distracted him. 

Excusing himself, Mercier left the library, hoping the footsteps were Betty’s. It wasn’t her, but a servant. He turned to get back in the room, and Betty walked down the stairs at the same moment. She smiled at him, but not for long.

“Miss, I—”

She shook her head and ran back up the stairs, leaving him baffled.

Where was the woman who jumped in the river, who looked him in the eyes, who found a way to slip a note in his jacket?

 

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. Maybe pursuing a governess was too complicated after all. 

Mercier stayed for lunch, sitting with the whole family. They ate _kedgeree_ , the adults at one end of the long table, Betty and the children at the other end.

Pieces of rice and smoked fish caught in Lord Wigram’s red whiskers as he talked about a whole menagerie of exotic animals installed at Eden Gardens for the season. 

“Oh, papa, miss Betty, please, can we go?” Victoria asked, making her best puppy eyes.

Winifred tugged on her governess’ sleeve. “Please, can we go?”

“Pwease, pwease,” Oliver echoed. He had no idea what they were asking, but he could sense his sisters’ excitement. 

Betty looked at Lord Wigram. 

“It can be arranged,” he said. “I can have the buggy ready to take you.”

“Thank you papa!”

“Alright, but you will have to be very well-behaved this afternoon,” Betty warned. “What time shall we go?”

“Right now!” declared Winie.

“It’s too hot. Tomorrow,” Betty said.

“Nine o’clock! No, eight! Eight-thirty.” Victoria declared.

Betty looked straight at Mercier as she said, “Nine o’clock tomorrow, it is. At Eden gardens.” 

Right away, the governess returned her attention to her plate, but a flush to her cheek told him she may have indeed arranged a meeting with him. This, this was the woman he wished to know better. He hid a smile behind his cloth napkin.

*

Betty thanked the fashion gods for the current trend of loose, frizzy buns. A hairstyle she effortlessly achieved by running after children all day. In the morning, she only ever had time to pin her curls atop her head. But today, she envied Lady Wigram’s heated waving irons (but not her singed hair) because today she had a rendez-vous. Well, if Colonel Mercier had understood her message, that is. 

“Let’s gooooooo,” Winifred whined, standing in the doorway of Betty’s bedroom. 

“This is no way to talk to me, young lady.”

“But I wanna see the pandas!”

The little girl’s behaviour provided an excuse for Betty to linger in front of the mirror. “Now you will just have to wait, Winnie.” Betty cinched her waist with a yellow sash and put on a straw hat. Even with these added accessories she looked plain. What could Mercier possibly like about her when he was surround with much more elegant ladies? She stepped away from the mirror before her thoughts dragged her down a spiral of self-deprecation. 

Winifred ran down the stairs, Betty behind her. The other children were already sat in the buggy, Oliver on the knees on his _ayah_ , Samaira.

Like most european families, the Wigrams had hired a native nanny. Samaira’s first language was Bengali, but she spoke English too, albeit not fluently. She was ten years older than Betty, and had children of her own at some point. 

Oliver kept tugging on her sari, she readjusted it over her head, the pale blue fabric a contrast to her dark skin.

Despite their cultural and lingual differences, Samaira was the closest thing to a friend Betty had, certainly the only other woman she talked to beside Lady Wigram. In fact, since arriving in India, Gabrielle Mercier was the only other one Betty had a conversation with. Even in England, with the Wigrams’ house set in a remote area of the Yorkshire countryside, she had no social life to speak of. At least the rest of the staff spoke English— or some version of it. Governess was a peculiar position, not a servant, but also not the family’s equal either. A lonely middle ground.

As they made their way towards the Eden Garden, Betty noticed men building roadside shrines and temporary temples. 

“What are they for?” she asked Samaira.

“ _Pandals_ , for _Sharad Navrati_ and Durga Puja celebrations. Durga Devi battles Mahishasura, so _Dharma_ returns.”

Betty remembered a tale in the girls’ book in which the warrior goddess Durga fought a shape-shifting buffalo demon. 

Samaira explained today was _Mahalaya_ , the first day of the festival, when Hindus remembered deceased loved ones.

“I think about mother,” Samaira said.

And Betty thought of her father. But sadness didn’t occupy her heart for long because the garden’s gates came into view. Had Mercier already arrived?

A tree-lined path lead to an artificial pond. Herons pierced the mist still skating above the water. On a central island, a Burmese Pagoda rose from the mist, a splash of red and orange in the green Indian autumn, its intricate wood carving like golden ivy growing along the multi-tiered roof. A dragon coiled around the top spire, looking over the visitors. 

Only a dozen people walked around the park, Betty scanned the area for Mercier’s tall figure, but she didn’t see him.

Beside the pond and pagoda, cages formed a half-circle between shrubs and flowerbeds. Victoria and Winifred ran towards the first one. Behind the bars, a gorilla threw hay in the air.

Betty looked behind her again, then at her pocket watch. Where was he? 

The gorilla had stopped playing, now it scratched intently a patch of hairless skin on its arm. Bored, the children moved to the next cage. With Samaira and the chauffeur with them, Betty didn’t have to stick too closely. 

The gorilla still scratched its skin in a worrisome way. It should not have to be alone in its cage all the time, surely there must be other monkeys it could befriend. Betty had half a mind to speak to its keeper, when Gabrielle Mercier came to stand beside her.

Betty’s heart plummeted: he’d sent his sister to turn her down.

“Ignore me, I’m only here for the sake of appearances,” Gabrielle said with a wink.

“What?” 

“You summoned me?”

Mercier sidled between Betty and his sister. In the shadow of his bowler hat, his eyes twinkled even if he didn’t smile. 

“You came.” She sucked in her bottom lip to suppress a beaming smile. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I was not sure you wanted me to,” Mercier said.

“Why? Did you not find my note?”

“I did— very crafty. But when I saw you yesterday, you ran away.”

“Oh, right. Well, we were in the house.” 

“What you mean to say is my attentions are unwelcome.”

“No! Just, in the house. When Lady Wigram’s there.” Betty had no desire to lose her position and be stranded in India.

“I see. And now we are outside the house. May I?” 

He brushed a fingertip along the curve of her palm. With her consent, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. Betty glanced sideways as he did it; No one seemed to notice their exchange. Bringing his sister along had been a smart move. 

The children had moved on to another cage, so Betty headed to the second one where a pair of zebras huddled together. Mercier and Gabrielle followed a minute after.

“Tell me, what is it about me that has you curious?” Mercier whispered as they pretended to observe the animals.

“Everything.”

He smirked, and she blushed furiously.

“You really are not here to coerce me in exchange for your silence?” she asked.

“I would never do something so dishonourable to you.” 

She searched his face for signs of dishonesty, his steady gaze allowed no dispute. Some tension left her shoulders. 

“I’m sorry for distrusting your intentions. I’ve to be careful.”

“I think you are wise to do so.”

She wanted to look at Mercier longer, at his kind eyes and lightly freckled cheeks, but couldn’t do so in public. She stared at the animals instead. Other visitors came to admire them, and Betty stepped sideways to give them some room. Mercier unlinked his hands from behind his back, and his sleeve brushed against hers. Meanwhile, the zebras rubbed their muzzles and foreheads together, and a little sigh escaped Betty. 

“If I may say so,” Mercier began, “things seem difficult between you and Lady Wigram.”

Betty rubbed a thumb in her palm and checked on the children. She moved to the next cage, mulling her answer over.

“Well, I— I don’t wish to speak ill of the Wigrams,” she said when he joined her. “I am most grateful for this opportunity. I have me own room, and they paid for me voyage to India. They are generous, especially to a girl like me from such an modest background.”

“I do no doubt it,” he reassured her. “I am not one for gossip, you may speak your mind.”

And she so wanted to. She had no one to talk to about this situation, not even in letters to her sister. She didn’t want to worry Margaret, and mail travelled too slowly anyway.

“She must have told you his lordship knew me father. That’s why they employed me.”

“Yes, I remember, she told me the first time we met.”

“She does that. I believe I’m an embarrassment to her. If I were less common, from a good family, you know, then it would reflect well on her ladyship. But I am not.” She bowed her head. 

“She makes it sound like they hired you out of charity.”

“Yes, and it is charity, in a way, as I said, I am grateful… But I’m good at me job too.” She watched the children still admiring the pandas. 

“I’m sure you are.”

“Well, Oliver falling in the river might not be the best example but the little bugger runs so fast. Winnie and Victoria are such smart girls, they learn fast, and they are well-behaved. I dare say her ladyship has no reason to be dissatisfied with my work.” 

“So she would need another kind of reason to get rid of you. Say improper behaviour.”

“Lord Wigram has the last say in this matter, I should think, and he gave me father his word. But a wife has her ways.”

“Why would she want to get rid of you?”

Betty struggled to explain her situation while respecting the family’s privacy and her own secrets. “She is not the first Lady Wigram,” she summed up.

“Ha. And you were there before her.”

As a widower, had Mercier encountered women who, like the second Lady Wigram, wanted to erase any trace of his first wife? That’s what she had done, less than a year after the children’s mother had passed away, she redecorated the whole house and hired new staff. 

Other visitors arrived, Mercier and Betty stepped away from each other. He talked to his sister while Betty observed armadillos scurrying across the cage’s dirty floor. 

Betty remembered the night she overheard an argument between Lord Wigram and his new wife because she wanted to fire the governess. “ _We could get a much better girl, someone with education and class. Not some common halfwit._ ” But Lord Wigram wanted to relocate the family to India permanently. Moving to a new country, with a new mother and a father the kids barely knew, even he realized the children would need someone they trusted. 

“She did not want me to come to India, but I did. Even if it scared me half to death. For the children.”

“Only for them?”

Betty shrugged. “With the change of century, I thought… Dunno, new century, new life.” Putting the past behind and her mistakes as well. Mistakes that would come back to haunt her if she was caught with Mercier. Even knowing that, she couldn’t resist his appeal. “And you, why did you come to India,” Betty asked him.

“I suppose I needed a change too. I needed something different, new, exciting.”

“You were not scared?”

He chuckled lightly. “I was…apprehensive, perhaps. But do not tell anyone.”

They smiled at each other and walked to the next cage where an aging lion hid behind a fake rock. 

“What is it that your father did for Lord Wigram?”

“Dunno. They were in the Navy together is all I know. Must be something big. Daddy alway said ‘Lord Wigram will help you’. I never thought I would need it, but… Anyway, he kept his word. He’s a good man. I don’t think he even told his wife what Daddy did. And that only makes things worse. She hates it.”

“Is she cruel to you?”

“No. Not physically.”

“I see.”

“She is under a lot of pressure here. Lord Wigram is trying to make a name for himself, and she must entertain his clients and associates. And she’s been sick. This weather… I am not unhappy. And I would not want to let the family down, not one of them.”

Mercier looked up at the pale sky. He had an unsettling stillness about him when lost in thought. 

“I’m sorry to have burdened you with these silly things,” Betty stammered.

Samaira and the children called Betty’s name as they walked towards her. 

“You have to see the pandas,” Victoria said.

Gabrielle quickly joined her brother. “We were just talking about the _Durga Purja_ ,” she said.

“Yes, I told them about the, er, _pandals_ ,” Betty added.

“I believe the procession is this Friday, is it not?” Gabrielle asked.

“Yes. _Vijayadahami_ , the procession, is Friday,” Samaira confirmed. “They walk in our street.”

“Will they? In front of Lord Wigram’s house? You should go, miss Salinger,” Mercier said. “The Hindus carry statues to the river, there is music and so many people one can hardly see what is happening. I have been every year, and will be there again on Friday.”

“The children would surely love it,” Gabrielle supplied.

“Yes, of course, for the children,” Mercier said.

“We might go, then,” Betty said.

*

The crowd’s energy was contagious. Hundreds and hundreds of them surged down the street. Men carried large percussion instruments and pungi flutes, women blew into conch shells. Low, entrancing notes rose in the air like charmed snakes. The pounding of the drums vibrated deep into Betty’s bones.

They danced and smeared each other’s faces with red sindoor. Others carried earthenware bowls in which fragrant herbs burned like incense. Kids laughed and chased each other, zig zagging between adults and animals. 

Above the crowd, on a stage of bamboo, sat a statue of Durga, eight yellow arms fanned around her. _Brahmins_ supplicated the goddess to go to her abode and return to them next year. Her devotees sang emotional goodbyes as they carried the statue towards the Hoogly river for its immersion.

Oliver watched from the window in Samaira’s arms. Winifred and Victoria had a seat above the crowd thanks to Rajit and Kamal, the chauffeur and the gardener, whom had hauled them on their shoulders. Betty stayed nearby. Energy grew in her legs, an itch to dance and join the procession. But no Europeans participated, most watched from their windows and porches, with expressions ranging from contempt to astonishment. 

Every once in awhile, she scanned the crowd for Mercier or Gabrielle. 

Between two drum players, Betty saw Mercier standing across the street. They caught each other’s eyes between groups of devotees. He would never be able to cross the procession before its end, and then it would be too late to meet without a parade to distract attention. 

Another Durga statue passed by, and Betty lost sight of him. She kept looking nevertheless, standing on tiptoes to see above heads.

Eagerness to see him mingled with her already heightened spirit, it swirled in her veins, made her heartbeat echo through her body. A heady thrum. She swayed, her skin tingled.

She felt someone behind her, and she knew it was him. He’d found a way to cross the crowd to her. She shifted her weight on her heels, leaning back, closer to him. 

“Colonel.”

“Miss Betty.”

He touched a mother-of-pearl button at the back of her shirt. Like _The Princess and the Pea_ , despite the layers of chemise, corset and petticoat, that slight point of pressure was all she could think of. He walked his fingers down, from button to button, between her shoulder blades. He spoke, near her ear but looking out at the crowd for the sake of appearances. 

“It occurred to me, that for all your explanations about your precarious situation—” down another button, and another— “you never asked me to stay away from you.”

She glanced shyly over her shoulder, “Indeed.”

His fingers reached the buttons nestled in the curve of her lower back. She leaned into his touch. Was he thinking of undoing them? Just like he’d opened her corset after rescuing her from the river. So, she could breathe freely again. 

The mass of people moved and pushed Mercier into her. Reflexively, he gripped her waist to steady both of them. Betty covered his hand with hers, their fingers twined. The gathering was forgotten. No sound or scent passed through their bubble, the whole world muted around them. Against her back, she felt his rib cage expand with each breath. How she wanted to turn around and wrap her arms around him. 

Too soon, the procession ended and the crowd thinned. 

“When can I see you again?” Mercier asked. 

“His lordship was invited to the Earl of Dalhousie’s hunting party.”

“So have I.”

“I believe there is talk of inviting women and children for a picnic after the hunt, but nothing is decided yet.”

“I will see what I can do.” 

With a last squeeze of her hand, he vanished into the crowd.


	4. Hiding

Mercier traipsed through the marshland at 5am, hunter boots up to his thighs and riffle on his shoulder. Achille and Céleste bounded behind him, happy to be out in the country. 

The chilly dawn wrapped around him like a blanket and absorbed every sound. He paused by a stream and closed his eyes, in the quietness his head felt lighter. In the city, the perpetual noise pressed against his skull, the bones shrank around his brain. He took a deep breath. In the crowd of the _Durga Puja_ celebrations, Betty’s closeness had alleviated this constant pressure for a brief moment.

Would she enjoy the morning’s peacefulness as he did? 

Lotus flowers floated on the river, bobbing with the ripples from a frog’s jump into the water. Betty had said she liked plants and flowers. 

Mercier had done his best to convince the other hunting participants to invite women and children to a picnic. He’d blamed his insistence on Gabrielle so as not to look suspicious. Other men had already expressed their opinion in favour, and it was finally agreed the men who so desired could invite their wife and children for a mid-morning meal. That didn’t mean Lord Wigram would do so. Or he could take his wife, but not his children, in which case Betty wouldn’t be there. And even if she was, she might not be able to sneak away with him. Although she’d proved rather creative so far (another reason why he liked her so). 

Mercier and his dogs crouched in the tall grass, he trained his gaze and firearm on a group of ducks, but branches of a weeping willow protected them for now. General Grégoire stealthily joined him, aiming at the ducks too, waiting for them to paddle away.

Once more, Mercier’s thought drifted to Betty, to their meeting at the zoo. He admired her loyalty to the family. Despite Lady Wigram’s antipathy towards her, she’d still tried to excuse her employer’s behaviour. Was it only because Betty didn’t trust him enough to speak her mind, or was she genuinely determined to see the best in everyone? 

Gunshots startled him. Ducks flew away in panic. The two dogs and a local boy in a loincloth ran towards the river to pick up the ducks killed by General Grégoire.

“What are you doing, Mercier? You didn’t even try to shoot.”

“I think there’s a problem with my gun,” he lied.

*

Betty, Samaira, and the children walked carefully between white tablecloths and cushions spread across the lawn for the picnic. 

Women in white dresses were already sipping champagne and lemonade. Their hats rivalled in volume and accessories, feathers and flowers and bows draped over brims wider than their shoulders. Amongst them, Betty spotted Gabrielle Mercier, they waved discreetly at each other.

Mercier was here. 

A knot she didn’t realise she had loosened in her stomach.

In the centre of the clearing, a heavy, shiny gramophone played a waltz, notes floated out of it like dandelion seeds in the breeze. A dozen children danced around, imitating their parents. Victoria and Winifred ran to join them. After four minutes, the gramophone had to be hand-cranked again. 

Betty was happy to meet, for the first time, other nannies and governesses. She chatted with a girl from Edinburgh, but her attention wavered when someone blew into a conch to announce the end of the hunt.

Servants hurried to bring the food, large silver plates of sausage, tongue and spiced beef, bowls of potato rissole, salad and fruits, platters of bread and cheeses. It was a potluck meal, each family had brought something— prepared by their cook, of course.

Monkeys and squirrels appeared on the branches of nearby trees, attracted by the delicious scents.

Several minutes later, the first men came out of the woods, behind them, local boys carried their prey. Betty watched each one as they walked out and were offered a glass of pale ale or ginger beer. Mercier came out last, a thin sheen of sweat of his flushed face, his loose white shirt was opened wide at the collar. He was laughing to something another man had said. Their eyes met across the field and her heart stopped for a second.

She imagined him crossing the lawn in great strides to take one of her hands as he wrapped his arm around her waist, and they would waltz across field. 

She tore her eyes away before anyone noticed her staring. 

“I know him,” the governess from Edinburgh said.

“Who?”

“The Frenchman.” She leaned towards Betty and whispered, “last week, Lady Katherine asked him to come over whilst her husband was gone.”

Betty’s stomach sank.

“Did he go?”

“Nah. He turned her down. She was furious!” 

She laughed, and Betty breathed a sigh of relief.

“I bet she wasn’t the first one to ask him,” the girl continued. “He’s a looker, he is.”

Betty shrugged and stepped away from the gossipping governess. 

The children had their own dedicated corner for the meal, away from their parents. Betty was too nervous to eat anything. 

A week had passed since the _Durga Puja_ parade, more than enough time to fantasise about their meeting at the picnic. But as the minutes ticked away, it seemed less and less likely any of the scenarios she’d imagined would come true.

She stayed with her wards, and he with the men or his sister. Every time they inched closer, someone would come up to him, or a child would call her name. People got drunker and the sun warmer. Her longing grew, heavy and insistent in her chest, stronger with each gaze exchanged across the lawn. 

“Let’s play hide-and-seek,” Victoria suggested.

The youngest children were already napping, but the older ones jumped and cheered in agreement. They dragged their governesses and nannies towards the woods.

*

As fast as courtesy allowed, Mercier ended his conversation with the Earl of Dalhousie. He asked Gabrielle to keep an eye on his dogs, then nonchalantly roamed towards the woods. He slipped between trees on the opposite side from where the children and governesses had gone to play hide-and-seek. 

As he walked through the shady grove, Mercier spotted a tall cluster of orchids amongst the ferns, pink blooms spread open, darker petals in the middle around a tiny protuberance. He picked one up, rolled the thick stem between his thumb and finger. It smelled of grass and vanilla. 

When he heard children laugh, even if he couldn’t see any of them yet, Mercier slowed his steps. He had enough experience as a spy to fool eight-year-olds.

After a bit more roaming, he saw Betty, about six feet away, by a banyan tree, all around its main trunk, branches had dropped and taken root, and she hid between those tendrils. He cleared his throat to alert her to his presence.

Betty leaned against the trunk, head cocked with a smile and hands behind her back. With long strides, he crossed the distance between them, never taking his eyes off her. 

He gently tucked the orchid in her bun, above her ear, and smoothed the hair over the stem, lingering. He brushed his knuckles down the side of her face.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

They both laughed softly, high on the sheer pleasure of sharing more than a sideways glance, finally able to stare at each other to their heart’s content. 

The closer he looked, the more fascinated he became with her beauty. From their first encounter, he’d thought her pretty, but now he saw how everything about her was a contrast of softness and strength: doe eyes a fierce shade of gold, smooth, pink-flushed skin over a sharp jaw, plump lips and razor-straight teeth. He stepped closer, well into her personal space, chest heaving with a surge of desire.

“The children…” She glanced over her shoulder, indicating they were close.

“Come.” He grabbed her hand and they ran away, deeper into the forest.

They stopped running when they reached the ruins of a temple. Crumbling walls, fallen columns and headless statues covered in moss and climbing plants. Roots and blossoms grew in every crack. Birds nested in the crossed legs of an anonymous deity.

“This is marvellous,” Betty whispered reverently. 

Eyes wide, an astonished smile on her face, she looked all around. And Mercier looked at her, never letting go of her hand. They walked farther into the temple, ducking under an archway that lead to a shrine, elephants carved into the bottom of the walls. Where a spire had once risen, tree branches met in a dome through which trickled sunlight. Backlit leaves created a green mosaic like stained glass.

“This is what I wanted,” Betty said.

“What is?”

“Spending time with someone who is not a child for once. Companionship, I suppose... And a bit of adventure.”

“Companionship and adventure. Am I to provide that for you?”

Betty shrugged and bit her thumb nail, suddenly shy. 

“Do you want anything else?” Mercier asked. 

“Have no fear, as I said, I have no illusions as to the kind of men who flirt with governesses.”

Mercier dropped her hand and frowned. “Can you trust me when I say I do not make a habit of such behaviour?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, am I not? So, you don’t need to lie or pretend this is… more.”

She looked down at her shoes. He had that feeling again, that she’d been deceived before. Hurting her was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was too early to make promises. Anyway, words were obviously not enough to convince her. 

“And you, Colonel, what do you want from me?” she asked, with a challenge in her eyes. 

“Companionship and adventure sounds wonderful.”

She took his hand, and he knew he’d passed her test. He raised her hand to his lips, kissing each finger adoringly.

“I should like you to call me Jean-François.”

“Then you may call me Betty.”

They whispered each other’s names carefully. 

“Tell me something about yourself, Betty.”

His request took her by surprise. She worried her bottom lip, searching their surroundings and his face for some answer.

“I want to mess your hair.”

Mercier laughed and obediently bowed his head, offering his curls to her fingers. At first, she shyly combed through the top, but soon she dug deeper. He closed his eyes as she gently massaged his scalp. He wanted to rest his head on her knees and let her tenderness lull him to sleep. A sigh, not unlike a purr, escaped his throat. She giggled, and he looked up, strands falling on his forehead.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

“For now.” 

She twined her fingers on the nape of his neck. With her thumb, she stroked the base of his skull and it sent a shiver down his spine. His gaze fell to her lips. Could he?

A hissing sound startled them. Betty jumped behind him. A fat snake, larger than his arm, slithered out of its nook in the wall, glistening scales in patches of brown and dark green. 

Betty whimpered behind him, and he couldn’t deny he enjoyed the way she clung to him.

“It’s only a python,” Mercier said, taking her in his arms and rubbing her tensed back.

“ _Only_ a python?”

“They are not venomous.”

She shivered.

“I want to leave.”

He reluctantly let her go, and they exited the ruins.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s not quite the kind of adventure I had in mind.”

“I understand.”

They walked in silence to the edge of the forest, slowing down when noises from the picnic came to them.

“I wish we had more time,” she said. “ But I should really go back to the children.”

“When is your next day off?”

“I already had it this month.”

“Only once a month?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I understand if you think it’s too complicated and you want to stop.”

“No.” 

He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. Was it possible that he already missed her?

“I have an idea,” he began. “Have you ever noticed the small shrine to Ganesha in the alley behind your house?”

“The very old one? I don’t think it’s used anymore. What of it?”

“Do you know what they call Ganesha?”

“The remover of obstacles.”

He smiled. “I propose we use the shrine as a… mailbox of sort. I should like to write to you, Betty. And you to me. If you want. You could hide your notes behind the statue, and I would send a _chaprassi_ to bring them to me, and to deliver my own letters.”

“You want me to write to you?”

“Yes.”

“But… what would I write about?”

He shrugged. “Anything. Your day. Your night. Your thoughts. I’m curious about you.”

She considered his suggestion, thinking it through. He awaited her agreement with a nervousness he hadn’t felt in a long time. He knew the precariousness of her situation, was he asking too much? 

“I would really like that,” she answered at last.

Mercier’s face broke into a grin. “Thank you.”

They held hands one last time before walking away in opposite directions.


	5. Writing

A screen of woven _kus-kus_ roots hung in Betty’s doorway to block the sun. A servant was spraying it with aromatic water from a goatskin bag, the dampness further helped keep the room cool. Betty waited, poised beside it, a white scarf covered her head. She wrung her hands together, nervous and alert, every muscle in her body taut and ready to sprint as soon as the servant left.

The footsteps receded and disappeared around the corner of the house. Betty slipped out, tiptoed the length of the second floor balcony. It was the perfect time to sneak out: the whole Wigram family was napping or dawdling the afternoon away, and heavy curtains blocked every window to keep out the heat.

In the garden, Betty crept past bushes and flowers, staying in the shadows until she reached a moldy wooden door. She plucked some flowers from a vine of Climbing Bauhinia then slipped out into the back street.

Face hidden by the white scarf, she waited until a group of children had ran past her to walk to the statue of Ganesha. Time had smoothed out its features carved in stone, moss covered its tusks and crown, furled brown leaves decomposed at its feet.

_The remover of obstacles._

Although Betty didn’t adhere to Hinduism, she’d rather not risk angering a god and therefore offered Ganesha some sweet-smelling blossoms. After a quick prayer, she slipped a hand in the damp space behind the stone idol, cringing, always afraid to feel some creepy-crawly. Much to her happiness, it’s paper she felt. Betty clutched the letter to her heart and sneaked back to her room.

Betty and Jean-François exchanged a letter every day, sometimes twice a day. She wrote to him before sunrise and, unless he was swamped at work, she would receive a reply by the time she could sneak out in the afternoon. If the kids stayed in their room long enough, she could write back right away and find a new letter behind Ganesha before going to bed.

Hopefully, no one had noticed his messenger or Betty coming and going behind the house. In case a stranger intercepted their messages, they avoided using the names of people or of specific places in Calcutta.

Betty savoured every letter, sitting on the window seat, she broke the wax seal and opened the folded pages like a treasure chest.

_“Dearest,_

_Your letter brightened my morning after another misadventure with my sister’s monkey. Can you believe he stole all my pens? I could not, for the life of me, find one to work. I feared it would prevent me from writing to you, but I eventually found them stacked at the bottom of a closet. She still refuses to get rid of the blasted thing._ ”

Betty laughed quietly, the misadventures of Jean-François and Voltaire the monkey were an ongoing saga. The animal was a perfect angel whenever Gabrielle was near but turned into a little devil as soon as she was out of sight. And Jean-François was his favourite victim.

At first, Betty hadn’t known what to write about. She felt she had nothing important enough or wise enough to share. As it turned out, these tidbits of their daily lives were as worthy of a correspondence as any philosophical debate or political argument. She loved learning more about his work, his hobbies, even about the food he ate (information she may or may not use in fantasies of the domestic kind).

Jean-François’ questions had eased her anxieties about writing. He wanted to know about her life before India, her work with the children, even the books she loved. And she asked her own questions in return about his childhood and travels.

And perhaps these things would be better shared face to face, but knowing her shyness, she would not reveal half as much in person as she did in print. She thought twice about everything she wrote, of course, but she really did want to be known by him. He always asked follow up questions, and their letters were getting longer and longer.

“I _cannot wait until you finally have a day free that we can spend together. In the meantime, someone of our acquaintance is organising a celebration for the arrival of her son and his family this Sunday. I believe your employer will be invited with his wife and children seeing as how she has grandchildren arriving too. I hope to see you there. Perhaps hope is too weak a word…_

 _This lady has a house so big, one could spend a whole evening in it without meeting another soul. And I believe you would adore her garden too, it has many charming nooks to sit down and contemplate._ ”

Thoughts of a house and garden where they could easily hide from guests had her imagination running: their arms around each other, perhaps even his lips on her neck… She wasn’t naive, she knew what this exchange would lead to. It would be a lie to say she didn’t want it, but she had to be smart about it this time.

She read the letter twice, absorbing every word, admiring his fine penmanship, she stroked the words with her fingertips, lingering on his signature: “ _Sincerely, J_.” One word that meant everything to her.

Betty had to hurry to reply to Jean-François’ letter before the kids awoke. She wrote a rough draft on the back of a drawing by Winifred, but ran out of ink. “Oh, bugger.”

She headed downstairs to Lord Wigram’s study. She was allowed to take paper and ink from there to teach the girls.

The door was ajar, but his lordship wasn’t in. Between the door and the storing cabinet, she glided her hand over the bookcases that lined the wall. She’d borrowed some of these books before. Many were already there when they arrived, left behind by the previous owner, and she seldom saw Lord or Lady Wigram read.

There was one book in particular, with a red leather cover, that always attracted her, but she hadn’t dared take it for fear of getting caught. It was an ancient Indian text translated by Sir Burton, and printed for private circulation only. She’d heard about it in England where it had caused quite a stir: _The Kama Sutra_.

She tried to ignore it and took the supplies she needed. But Jean-François’ letter and the sneaking out had heated her blood– she surrendered to curiosity and stole the book. She hid it in her apron and rearranged the novels on the shelf so as not to leave a gap. Muffling a squeal into her palm, she hurried back to her room.

Betty hid the book at the bottom of a drawer and took some deep breaths to calm her nerves. Sitting on the edge of her chair at the slope desk, she focused on her calligraphy.

“ _I think I recall L.W. talking about that celebration this coming Sunday. I so long to see you again. I should love you to show me around the garden. I dream of exploring those little nooks you mentioned._ ”

The blush on her cheeks spread to her ears, she felt the tips heat up.

She wrote some more about the Indian tale she’d read to the children this morning and how it had made her want to travel to the Himalayas, but she was running out of time. She signed off: “ _Yours, B._ ”

Betty checked on the children to make sure they were still napping, before sneaking back down to the garden. She left her letter behind Ganesha for Jean-François’ messenger to pick up. 

When she reentered the garden, Samaira, Oliver’s nanny, was there, watching her. Betty yelped, and her hand flew to her heart. Samaira jumped too, but quickly recovered and squinted at Betty, arms crossed on her chest. “What are you doing?” she asked.

_Oh, no._

She’d been caught red-handed. And the first thought that entered Betty’s mind didn’t have to do with her job or the Wigrams but with Jean-François. This could mean the end of their correspondence, or worse, of any contact between them. Blood drained from her face.

“Betty? Where were you?” Samaira asked again.

“I, er, I… was out?”

“Out?”

“For a bit of fresh air.”

“In the street?” Samaira insisted.

Betty clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. Her mind reeled to find some reasonable explanation, but Samaira’s dark eyes scared all thoughts from her brain.

“I see you every day.” Samaira smiled, which scared Betty even more. “Me too,” she added.

“You too…?”

“I love a man. Rakesh.” Rakesh was the butler of the Lloyds next door.

“You love Rakesh? Oh!” She wasn’t going to report Betty’s activities to the Wigrams, they were in the same situation. Fear left her body so fast her legs wobbled and she leaned against the fence. “Oh, you’re in love. You will not tell her ladyship about me? I only slip out for a minute.”

“I will not tell, if you don’t.”

“Promise.” She looped arms with Samaira, and they giggled conspiratorily. “So, do you sneak out to meet him?”

Samaira blushed and nodded shyly.

“I don’t, I’m not meeting him,” Betty specified. “We send each other letters.”

“It is Colonel Mercier, yes?”

“How did you know?”

Samaira laughed, she had a lovely musical laughter. “I see him look at you.”

It was Betty’s turn to blush.

The nanny left to get back to Oliver, and Betty lingered in the garden, thinking over this new development. They could help each other, she realized, if she watched Samaira’s back when she met with Rakesh, then she could count on her when she had an opportunity to see Jean-François. Now, she looked forward to Sunday even more, with the nanny’s help she could meet Jean-François in secret during the reception without worrying about the children. 

“Betty!” Lady Wigram yelled from the drawing room doorstep. “What do you think you’re doing? Dawdling again, girl?”

“… picking flowers, your ladyship.”

Lady Wigram narrowed her eyes at her. “Where is my husband?”

“I don’t know. I’ve not seen him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“Well, stop wasting your time and come back in, girl, Victoria needs you.”

Betty bowed her head and nipped back to the house.

*

Mercier inspected his skin closely, running his hand over his cheeks to ascertain their smoothness after shaving. Satisfied, he dabbed on some aftershave, the witch hazel lotion made his skin tingled. He rubbed pomade between his palms and added it to his hair. Memories of Betty running her fingers through it filled his mind, and he felt a tightening, low in his abdomen. He left his curls a tad more disheveled than usual. She liked it that way.

Tonight was the Marquise de Brem’s dinner party to celebrate the arrival of her son to Calcutta. The de Brems were one of the last prominent French family in India. He was well acquainted with the Marquise, an older woman who had decided to stay in her country of adoption after her husband’s death. Her son, on the other hand, had not chosen to move to India, but was sent here to avoid a scandal. Or so the rumours went.

Mercier discarded his towel and walked to his closet. The scandal surrounding de Brem didn’t matter right now. The most important thing was Betty’s presence at this dinner party. He brushed the sleeves of several shirts to pick the softest one. In his letters, he’d hinted at the privacy afforded by the Marquise’s house and garden. Betty’s reply gave him hope for further closeness between them tonight. He thought of her body pressed to his in a dark alcove, of kisses stolen under a palm tree in the garden. 

Mercier redirected his thoughts to the choice of outfit, he’d thought about Betty at length already in the bath.

He slipped on a dove grey shirt and chose a pair of cufflinks. Betty’s letters were stacked beside the jewelry box, and he rested his hand upon them for a moment.

He’d found in her writing a keen mind. A woman whose observations and interrogations indicated a great curiosity and desire to learn. And he couldn’t think of a more noble quality in any human being. For all his earlier, somewhat impure, thoughts, the intimacy he longed to share with her went beyond the physical.

She was simply charming.

Beside the stack of letters, he kept a list. A list of all the places he wanted to show her in India: the backwaters of Kerala, the theyyam rituals in Kannur, the intricately carved temples of Osian, the abandoned Mughal capital of Fatehpur Sikri, the Golden Temple in Amritsar. Places where she might learn about history and the diverse Indian culture, and live the adventures she desired. He had not allowed himself yet to write down places outside of India, but that list existed, somewhere in his mind. 

Unfortunately, one free day a month was far from enough to go through that list. He’d have to find a way to convince Wigram to give her more free time. Men never discussed such things, however, he needed a good strategy. Maybe Gabrielle could help.

Regardless, it shouldn’t be his priority with Wigram. He had yet to find any incriminating evidence against the man, even if he was convinced Wigram was up to something in his dealings with the French. Mercier had to keep investigating. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have an excuse to visit the Wigram’s house anymore.

Mercier straightened his neck tie and headed out with butterflies in his stomach.

From his carriage, he could already hear music. The Marquise de Brem was famous for lively social gatherings. Children were playing hopscotch on the front steps and greeted guests. Mercier searched for Betty’s pupils but didn’t recognize any of them.

Throughout her decades in Calcutta, the Marquise had added to her house levels and wings, turrets, porticoes and balustrades that grew like tree fungus on the original building. All these asymmetries and niches offered hiding opportunities Jean-François hoped to take advantage of.

He strode inside, a bawdy grin already on his lips. As good manners dictated, he first introduced himself to the lady of the house. The Marquise had long ago forgone dresses and corsets in favour of more practical native outfits, but tonight she’d made an effort. After all, she was introducing her son to Calcutta’s high society. Mercier complimented her. “Si j’avais vingt ans de moins”– _were I twenty years younger_ , she sighed, eyeing Jean-François appreciatively as he kissed her hand. “Now, which lucky lady shall I introduce you to?”

“No need Marquise.”

“Is that so?”

The Marquise’s son arrived before she could interrogate him. “Mercier, mon ami,” said de Brem, a fake smile under his blond mustache. “I hear we will be working together again. The old team.”

Mercier ground his teeth, de Brem was the kind of man who took all the credit for work he didn’t do. Probably a side-effect of being praised for the most trivial achievement as a child. “Although, now that I have arrived,” he continued, “you will not be needed here as much. If at all.” Mercier frowned, unable to tell if de Brem was privy to the French governor’s decisions or talking through his hat.

As he was looking for an excuse to get away from de Brem, Wigram walked through the front door with his wife. _Only_ his wife. No beautiful governess to share complicit smiles with. Mercier’s shoulders dropped. He wanted nothing more than leave the party now, but with de Brem’s comment it seemed wiser to stick around and demonstrate his professionalism.

Mercier grabbed a glass of wine and plastered on a smile. 

*

Betty woke up to Samaira softly saying her name and shaking her shoulder. “What is it?”

“You need break. I sit with her.”

Betty caressed Winifred’s feverish cheek. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Oliver is sleeping.” She added in a whisper, “you have mail waiting.”

Winifred’s body temperature had risen worryingly fast on Sunday, and the only possible treatment had been to keep her cool. Betty had spent the last 48 hours doing so. She’d missed the dinner party and a chance to see Jean-François, but she’d been too worried about the little girl to think about that. Every one of her whimpers made Betty’s heart ache. These tropical fevers claimed so many lives in India.

The scent of sickness clung to her, Betty washed and changed into another black dress, then headed out into the garden. She filled her lungs with misty, morning air. Reading a letter from Jean-François would offer a welcomed respite.

A bird flew away, Lord Wigram was there, in a dressing gown, bloodshot eyes and dark circles marred his usual jovial face. “How is she?” he asked about his daughter.

“Better. I think. Stable.”

“Good. Good… Thank you for taking care of her.”

“Not at all, your lordship.”

His distant, empty stare glided over the clusters of dwindling frangipanis. “Emma had a fragile health too…” he said, referring to his deceased first wife.

“I know, but she’s a strong one, Winnie.” Betty dared put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Lady Wigram walked out of the house at that moment. She cleared her throat.

“Your breakfast is ready, dear. We can send for the doctor again after.”

Once they’d disappeared inside the house, Betty slipped out of the garden in the backstreet. Behind the statue of Ganesha, she found not one, but three letters.

She opened them in her room. The first one only said: “ _Are you awake?_ ”

In the second one, his usual fine penmanship became increasingly messy.

“ _Gajdant is angry with me because I keep sending him to see if you have replied. You must be sleeping. I only wanted to talk to you._

_You were not at the diner party. De Brem was at the diner party with his stupid mustache. Quel con. Don’t talk to him. Wigram was there too. I have to talk to him so I can see you. He sees you every day. That is why he only gives you one day off. If I was him, I would not want to not see you. But if I was him I would be married to Lady Wigram. I do not want to marry her._

_Where are you Betty? I saw a brige you would like._

_It was teribly boring tonight. Everything is borin. Except when you are there. You are not boring. You are beautiful and I want to make you smile all the time. I wantd to go in the garden with you. I should not think that way about you, but I do. When you are close to me I want you closer closer. And I think you want it too. I kissed your forehead last time even your forehead is beautiful. Je voudrais te donner mille autres baisers et pas seulement sur le front. Et te prendre dans mes bras et te garder._

_Je m’endors. Good night._ ”

Betty chuckled as she read his message. “Oh, Jean-François what happened to you?” she said, shaking her head indulgently. The third letter shed some light on the matter.

“ _Dearest,_

_I must apologise for my last letter. I am afraid I had too much to drink at the party. I somehow thought writing to you as soon as I arrived home was a good idea. I suppose it was a better idea than climbing to your bedroom window. I hope I have not offended you and you can forgive my behaviour._

_Yours sincerely, J._ ”

*

Mercier paced the hall, waiting for Gajdant, the messenger, to come back. Betty had yet to reply to his last letters, and he feared he’d really upset her with his cognac-inspired messages.

In his letter of apology, he’d wanted to reassure her his intentions were honest and pure, but found he could not do it as it might be a lie. In fact, he didn’t know what his intentions were at all. Did he want more than the companionship and adventure she’d asked for? He only knew her letters made him happy. In nine days, they would see each other again, unrestricted by work or the presence of others. Then, he would know. Surely, it would all prove to be nothing more than an infatuation.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” Gabrielle asked.

“Not all day. Until the messenger comes back.”

Gabrielle sat on the recliner and browse the newspaper. “It could take awhile,” she said, “I gave him notes for five of my friends too.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Am I not allowed to send messages too?”

Mercier sighed and sat down beside his sister. “I made a fool of myself.”

“Oh, come now, I’ve seen you drunk, it’s not as bad as you imagine. You need to loosen up sometimes.” She squeezed his shoulder gently, rubbing a thumb over a knot in his muscles. 

“I barely know her, and yet I am reduced to this.”

“That’s love, dear brother.”

He huffed and was about to contradict her when the front door opened— Gajdant. Mercier jumped to his feet. The man handed him a folded missive, and Mercier held his breath until he recognized Betty’s handwriting.

“ _Dear friend,_

_Apologies accepted for that cavalier letter. I’m sorry I could not be at the dinner party, but one of the girls is ill and I stayed home with her. I had been thinking about this night every day since you first mentioned it. In fact, I’m afraid that I was so fixated on it, I did not notice her health declining. She is feeling better, but I shall devote more of my time to my pupils now. Tonight, I will have more time to write to you._

_P.S. I should like to see you try to climb up to my window._ ”

“Cheeky girl.”

“Good news?” Gabrielle asked, sorting through her own mail.

“I am forgiven.”

“Good for you,” she said. “I’m going to the tailor for my wedding dress, I would ask you to come with me but I have a feeling you already have plans to visit Wigram.”

“If you really need me…”

“Nah, Julia is coming with me already. But don’t forget the concert tomorrow night.”

Mercier changed into a suit then headed to the consulate side of the house. He needed some official-looking papers that would justify the visit. 

In the hall, he met de Brem who had already made himself quite at home in the office. “Mercier, excellent, I was looking for you. I have been reading your reports. How is the inquiry on Lord Wigram going?”

“Fine.”

“Have you found anything relevant yet?”

“Nothing concrete yet, but I believe he’s experiencing financial troubles. I was just on my way to meet with him.”

“I will take care of that.” De Brem grabbed the papers out of Mercier’s hands. “I should like to see him for myself.”

“You met him at your mother’s party.”

“Here is something more adequate for your… abilities. I trust you are familiar with the situation in Dhaka.” He handed him a heavy file and left.

Robbed of both an interesting case and an opportunity to see Betty, Mercier clenched his jaw. He glared at de Brem’s receding silhouette.

The file concerned a French indigo manufacturer in negotiations with the local zemindar, he required immediate help from the consulate. Mercier swore under his breath: he had to leave Calcutta.

*

Betty adored these moments when she had the house to herself. The children were asleep and their parents out for the night to a concert. Even Samaira had left, Betty had helped her sneak out to meet Rakesh. Lady Wigram’s absence, in particular, was a relief. These days, she watched the governess closer than before and had taken to entering Betty’s bedroom without knocking or asking permission. 

The domestics too enjoyed the absence of the _mensahib_ , their muted chatter reached Betty’s ears in the living room. They prepared the house for the night: they turned down beds, pulled curtains, lighted lamps and candles, and set the table for breakfast. 

Betty curled on the sofa, pulling her sleeveless nightgown over her knees. In the warm glow of an oil lamp, she reread Jean-François’ last letter.

“ _I am eager to spend more time with you. There are so many places I should like to take you, but wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do, your wish will be my command._ ”

Betty sighed dreamily and turned her face to the window. A bright moon shone above the city. 

Where was he right now? At the same concert as the Wigrams? She imagined him, ever so handsome in his tuxedo, glass of wine in hand, surrounded by charming people. Surrounded by women, because he attracted them of course. 

Betty shook her head to get rid of these jealous thoughts. 

“ _Whatever you want to do_ ”, he’d said. Betty looked down at the book resting on her knees, _The Kama Sutra_ tucked between the pages of her album of pressed flowers. 

She’d read diligently through the preface and introduction and the first part describing the sixty-four arts and the arrangement of a house. Tonight, at last, she reached the one she was really interested in. “Part II: On sexual union”. The list of chapters made her blush: “Of the embrace”, “On Kissing”, “On biting”, “About females acting the part of Males”, “On holding the Lingam in the Mouth”.

Betty slammed the book shut and fanned herself. “Oh goodness.” She steeled herself and reopened the book. It began with a description of the kinds of sexual union, and she found herself wondering in which category Jean-François fit. Hare, bull or horse? She suppressed a nervous giggle and kept reading. The author described the pleasure of women and their active participation in the act in ways she hadn’t known possible. 

She squirmed on the sofa, imagination aflame with the descriptions of every kind of embrace and kissing: 

_“When one of two lovers presses forcibly one thigh between those of the other… When a man presses the middle part of the woman's body against his own, and mounts upon her to practise, either scratching with the nail or finger, or biting, or striking, or kissing, the hair of the woman being loose and flowing… Whatever things may be done by one of the lovers to the other, the same should be returned by the other… A mark made on the breast or on the hips is called the "leaf of a blue lotus"… When a person is going on a journey, and makes a mark on the thighs, or on the breast, it is called a "token of remembrance..._ " 

Betty’s chest rose with heavy breaths, heat spread from her core, up her neck to her cheeks. A soft knock startled her. Jean-François was there in his tuxedo, white bow tie and waistcoat, jacket draped over his arm. She blinked, certain it was her mind playing tricks on her. “B— Miss Salinger… are you okay?” She scrambled up to her feet.

“Yes. Sorry.” His gaze moved up and down her body cover by only a thin layer of linen. She toyed with the tip of braid nervously. In their letters, they’d shared their innermost thoughts, and yet she shied away now they met in the flesh. 

“I… I think I forgot a document here last time I met with Lord Wigram.”

“Oh, well, I’m afraid his lordship and his wife are not home right now.”

“Yes, the butler informed me.”

“They are at a concert… Were you invited too, colonel?”

“Yes, I was, but I changed my mind.” So he knew she would be alone in the house. “How are the children?” he asked.

“Fine. Winnie recovered. They’re sound asleep at the moment. Such good children, never wake me up at night.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.” Their eyes met, and she bit her lower lip. Was he reading between the lines? She couldn’t speak openly, not when a domestic could walk in a any time. She couldn’t risk it.

“I should look for my book,” he said.

“Of course.”

He stepped inside, and she stepped back. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she watched him search for a book he had never forgotten here in the first place. 

Hare, bull or horse, she wondered again as her gaze drifted down his slim torso.

The clock struck ten. “Oh, time for us staff to retire to our rooms.”

“All of you?”

“Yes.”

“Is no one staying up to greet the Wigrams when they get back?”

“I think, the butler, maybe, but he’s staying in the north wing, after he’ll have let you out.”

“I see.” He slipped his jacket back on, ready to leave.

“Wait.” She pushed a book into his hands so it would look like he found what he was looking for. As he took it, his fingers caressed hers. 

“Good night, miss Salinger.”

“Good night, Colonel.”

Betty listened to his receding footsteps, then ventured in the hall to make sure the butler saw him exit. She stayed there, immobile, heart hammering until the butler retired to the north wing. 

She checked on the children— in deep slumber. She slipped outside, to the garden. She raised her nightgown, and walked farther, the night-cool grass tickled her soles. 

A rustle of leaves alerted her to his presence. Jean-François was leaning against the trunk of a palm tree. He’d unknotted his bowtie and opened the first button on his shirt. Right there, below his Adam’s apple, that dip between his clavicles, that’s where she wanted to press her lips. The urge was so strong it robbed her of words. 

“I tried to climb up to your window,” he joked to break the silence.

She laughed and relaxed, but only briefly. “You cannot be here.” She’d warned him not to jeopardise her position. His smiled waned. 

“Why did you come in the garden if you didn’t want to see me?”

“I couldn’t resist,” she admitted, “but if we’re caught…”

“I know, I would not have done it if I didn’t have a good reason.”

“What’s going on?”

“I could not leave without seeing you again.”

Her stomach dropped. “You’re leaving?”

“Calcutta, not India, and only for a couple of weeks.”

“Weeks! Can we still write.”

“Yes. Gabrielle will send me your letters, and I will send her mine. But they might take days to reach you.”

The news crushed her chest, breath escaped her. She had not realized how essential their correspondence was to her until now. “Will you be back in time for my day off?”

“I don’t know.”

“But… all the things you said we would do. I…” She swallowed her whining and chewed the inside of her cheeks. He was an important man, with a job and colleagues and friends. Of course, he had other things to do. But she didn’t. She had nothing outside of taking care of the children.

“I will try my best, Betty. I do not want to miss it, believe me.” He stepped closer, and carefully touched her hands, silently asking for permission to hold them. His fingers slipped inside her palms, and he rubbed his thumbs over her skin. She clasped his hands tighter as if to ground herself. He raised them to his lips, peppering kisses across her knuckles. “A demonstrative kiss,” the Kama Sutra called it.

“Jean-François,” she whispered, just to say his name. He looked at her, in the darkness she could barely discern his face, she touched it instead, featherlight brushes across his temples, down the narrow bridge of his nose, along his jawline. She touched his lower lip, soft and plum under the pad of her fingers. She was always the one touching him, she realized and thus raised his hand to her cheek. His long fingers cradled her face tenderly, and she felt like something precious.

“Is it odd, if I say I will miss you?” she asked.

“Then I am odd too.”

She placed her hands upon his chest, and thought of pressing her nails into his skin, “a token of remembrance”. Something to remember her by. She’d been forgotten too many times before. “What are you thinking?” he asked. Rather than answer, she kissed the skin between the lapels of his shirt. A simple, lingering press of the lips, restrained by modesty. She breathed in the herbal notes of his cologne. His breath hitched, and he burrowed his hands into her hair. He tugged, angling her head back. He stared at her parted lips, and she reveled in that hungry gaze. “Betty,” he growled, half warning, half begging. She pecked his lips briefly and stepped away. He frowned. 

“Godspeed, Jean-François. Come back quickly,” she said, something teasing slipping into her words. “ _You’ll have more_ ” was implied. 

He looked fixedly at her, his face betrayed nothing, and she worried she’d upset until he chuckled and sighed. 

“I will be back sooner than you think. And I won’t let you stop next time. You might need this.” He returned the book she’d thrust into his hands earlier: her album of pressed flowers with _The Kama Sutra_ inside. 

“Oh, I… it’s not what you think.”

“I rather hope it is what I think. Write to me, as often as you can. We can compare notes.” He smirked and left her weak in the knees.


	6. Biting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: predatory behaviour from a man

Mercier scratched the back of his head, ruffling his hair in frustration. His hand followed the curve of his neck, and he rested his fingers at the base of his throat, where Betty had kissed him.

Today was her day off, but Mercier wasn’t in Calcutta.

He loosened his necktie, sighed and returned to the legal documents in front of him.

When he’d last seen Betty, with her braid and nightgown, holding a book of pressed flowers. She’d looked young, innocent. But then to find _The Kama Sutra_ hidden in her book and that teasing kiss. There was so much about her he had yet to discover.

As a rule, he avoided women who tried to play these kinds of games of seduction: tempting, then withdrawing, suggesting then playing coy. He preferred straightforward, honest affairs. But he couldn’t blame Betty for doing this; he’d pursued her in the house of her employer, and he’d suggested they secretly write to each other. What else was she supposed to think?

All of this would be much easier were she his equal. It was madness for a man of his standing to pursue a governess. A governess working for a man suspected of fraud by the French government. Madness. And yet, he intended to persevere.

Mercier sipped some tea and looked out the window at the vast indigo plantation. Under the watchful eyes of soldiers, native men in white turbans, carried loads of blue flowers on their spindly backs.

Monsieur Lelievre, the owner of the plantation, entered the study, arms full of large books. A cloud of dust burst from the pages when he dropped them on the desk. “The plantation’s bookkeeping from the beginning,” he announced. He brushed his waistcoat and trousers, then sat opposite Mercier. 

Not long ago, Mercier would have jumped at this chance for a real mission outside Calcutta. The negotiations between European tradesmen and local authorities often required skills of the military and diplomatic kind. But in this case, not only did he have more interesting duties in the city, Mercier suspected he’d been sent on a wild goose chase. He’d been here two weeks without making any progress.

Mercier cursed de Brem under his breath. Only a few days after landing on the shores of India, the man had taken over the investigation on Lord Wigram and had sent Mercier away from Calcutta. What if there was more to it than the old rivalry between them?

*

Gabrielle whistled as she entered her home, removing her hat and gloves. It had been a wonderful promenade, and she gave each dog a treat for their good behaviour. She’d met Miss Salinger in the park, it was her day off. To make up for her brother’s absence, Gabrielle had done her best to cheer her up, with some success. She was a bright young woman, no wonder Jean-François was so taken with her.

“It’s lovely to see you so happy, Miss Mercier,” de Brem said in French.

At the sight of the blond, mustachioed man, Gabrielle stiffened. “It seems you have gotten lost in the house Mr. de Brem. Again. Let me show you the way back to the consulate wing.” 

Since Jean-François had left for Dhaka, de Brem kept coming over, at all hours of the day. Since he was her brother’s boss, she couldn’t be as rude with him as she wished. 

Gabrielle walked away, but he stepped between her and the door.

“I am not lost, I assure you. I wanted to see you.” He touched her arm, and Gabrielle recoiled. “I remember a time when you welcomed my attentions.”

“That was a long time ago. Before I met Armand.”

He stepped forward, she stepped backward.

“He’s a poor pianist,” de Brem said.

Forward, backward. 

She clenched her fists, remembering her brother’s boxing lessons.

“I love him,” Gabrielle stated.

“I would give you anything you desire.”

“You are married. You have children. You have no honour.”

The back of her legs hit a writing desk. Her knees buckled and de Brem smiled. His breath ghosted over her face, she turned her head away.

“Unlike your brother, you mean? And what has his honour ever done for him? I am his superior now. When I want something, I take it.” 

His tongue snaked out between his thin lips as he contemplated Gabrielle’s face. Then his gaze strayed to a point behind her shoulder, and he smirked. Gabrielle pushed him away. The front door opened, and de Brem retreated so as not to get caught.

“See you soon, Miss Mercier,” he said before leaving.

Gabrielle sat down and closed her eyes to steady her beating heart. 

De Brem’s self-confidence had once seduced her, but something corrupt had festered in his soul. She reflected on how people who grow up with everything shall never be satisfied.

So far, she had not told her brother about his colleague’s behaviour, but now it had gone too far. When she turned to the writing desk, Gabrielle saw what had caught de Brem’s attention earlier: a letter from Miss Salinger to Jean-François.

*

On the porch of the Wigram’s house, Betty leaned against a doric column. Her feet ached from walking all day in cheap boots, but she would enjoy her free day until its last second.

The twilight hour had a peculiar stillness to it, even birds in the palms dozed off, tired from the day’s work. A hot wind chased dry coconut shells down the street and stirred the fragrant frangipanis. Warm hues filled the sky and painted white buildings with gold. A tabby cat curled at her feet. 

With each breath, her chest pushed against Jean-François’ latest letter hidden in her corset; Gabrielle had passed it on to her during their promenade. She missed him. She missed how every step out of the house thrilled her with its chance to meet him. If only she’d given him a proper kiss goodbye. What if he’d met someone else in Dhaka? Another deep breath, and the envelope crinkled in her corset. No, he was still hers. 

With the delay between letters— three days, sometimes four— their correspondence lacked the back and forth, akin to a conversation, it had before. But there was more of an openness to them, more daring and risque too. He remained a gentleman, and she a well-behaved young woman, but they chose each word carefully for their double meaning or reference to _The Kama Sutra_. Each sentence crafted to arouse the reader’s imagination.

She grazed the letter with her fingertips, and her skin goose-pimpled with excitement. Should she read it now or wait until she was alone in her room?

Knocks on the window decided for her. Her three pupils, Victoria, Winifred and Oliver, pressed their faces against the glass and slapped it to attract their governess’ attention. Betty waved at them, and they ran to the door to greet her. They jumped in her arms, talking one over the other about their day, as if they had been separated for weeks. 

Lady Wigram stood nearby, always with that haughty set to her chin. She stared at the children’s display of affection. Hurt flickered in her hazy blue eyes, but she chased it away with a flippant remark about Betty’s appearance. Betty couldn’t help that she’d been in the children’s lives longer than their step-mother so they trusted her more. Still, she felt bad for Lady Wigram who obviously wished to be closer to the children.

“Where did you get those earrings?” Lady Wigram asked with narrowed eyes.

Betty touched the delicate pendants at her ears— a gift from Jean-François to apologise for his absence on her day off. “… Miss Mercier gave them to me.”

At the mention of Gabrielle, Lady Wigram perked up. “You know Miss Mercier? Why would she give you earrings?”

After some incoherent babbling, Betty explained she’d first met Gabrielle after Oliver had fallen in the river and Jean-François helped them out. She then made up a story about helping out with Gabrielle and Armand’s upcoming wedding. “She gave me the earrings as a thank you. They’re second-hand. Said she never wears them anyway.” She held her breath as Lady Wigram appraised her for long seconds. She nodded curtly, and let Betty go.

From her bedroom window, Betty had a good view of the tree in the backyard under which she’d met Jean-François before he left town. She couldn’t help but glance at it, hoping to see him there, leaning against the trunk, neck tie loose and smoldering eyes. But he wasn’t there. 

She postponed reading his letter until after the children had gone to bed. She hid it at the bottom of a drawer along with the earrings, then changed into her grey governess dress. And thus she also slipped back into her governess persona: meek and unremarkable. 

On the dinner table, a servant had set a plate down for Lord Wigram but his chair was empty. It remained untouched until the end of the meal, and Lady Wigram kept glancing at the clock and at the front door. It wasn’t Betty’s place to ask about his lordship’s whereabouts, but she worried. Thankfully, Victoria asked “Where is Papa? Won’t he be hungry?”

Lady Wigram’s hazy blue eyes settled on Betty even as she answered Victoria. “Your father said he was going out to meet a _friend_ this morning.” 

Betty focused all her attention on cutting her chicken into bits so as not to meet that unprovoked icy glare. She didn’t have anything to do with his absence.

Not ten minutes later, a great guffaw announced Lord Wigram’s return. He staggered into the dining room, arm in arm with an equally inebriated man. Wigram kissed his wife, then each children’s head, and Betty’s too. Laughing, Betty ushered the children out of the room before the men became too rowdy. 

Samaira, Oliver’s nanny, joined them. As the children chose a story, the nanny and the governess chatted about their day. The conversation confirmed what Betty thought: Lady Wigram had tried to play with the children so they might warm up to her, but she’d suggested activities ill-suited to their age. 

“Betty, I want to go out tonight,” Samaira whispered— she meant meet up with Rakesh, her boyfriend who worked next door.

“Of course, I’ll cover for you,” Betty answered. Someday, she might need Samaira’s help to sneak out and meet Jean-François.

Betty came up with a plan that would kill two birds with one stone: ensure Lady Wigram wouldn’t catch Samaira leaving the house, and make her feel appreciated by the children. Betty had been teaching the children a nursery rhyme, she asked the Victoria to write down the lyrics while Winifred drew flowers around the sheet. They practiced singing it with a simple choreography.

When Samaira was ready to leave, Betty took the children to the drawing room. Lady Wigram was alone, his lordship already snoring off the ale. 

The children were nervous as they took place in front of their stepmother. Betty offered Lady Wigram the lyrics and encouraged her to sing along. There was much laughing and off-key singing, but they did splendidly.

At Betty’s behest, they hugged and kissed their stepmother goodnight. She seemed genuinely happy, more than she had ever seen her. 

“It was their idea,” Betty lied. She hoped Lady Wigram would be nicer if she didn’t feel in competition with the governess.

“That’s very kind. Tell me Betty, you really were with Gabrielle Mercier this afternoon.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“Do you think… She is a very fashionable young woman. The talk of the town, one might say.”

“Yes, she is.”

“And her fiancé is a talented pianist. Their wedding is bound to be a grand event.”

“I suppose it will,” Betty replied carefully, wary of this unusual amiable tone.

“And of course, my husband is a close acquaintance of Colonel Mercier.”

The mention of Jean-François unsettled Betty, she panicked, until she realized what Lady Wigram was really after: an invitation. “I believe miss Mercier said you would be invited to her wedding.”

“As it should be,” she answered with a satisfied smile.

Maybe if she secured an invitation to the wedding for the Wigram, and made the children lover her ladyship, Betty wouldn’t be the target of the lady’s insecurities anymore. At least, Lord Wigram was nice to her, but it only made matters worse with his wife. Eventually, he might decide to grant his wife’s wish and fire Betty, instead of keeping an old promise made to her late father.

Back in her modest room, Betty put these thoughts behind her; she finally had time to read Jean-François’ letter, and she wouldn’t let anything distract her from his words. 

She changed into her nightdress but put the earring back on, them climbed into bed with a candle.

_Dearest, I am sorry to miss your day off. I trust you made the most of it, and followed your wonderful sense of adventure. I hope the gift pleases you. If I cannot be with you, at least let something from me be in your presence. The earrings are made of oxblood coral inlaid in white gold. Perhaps not the most luxurious of gemstones, but certainly more original. I believe you are far too unique to wear the same stone as everyone else. They reminded me of you._

Betty smiled. _The Kama Sutra_ described “the coral and the jewel” as a type of biting done by bringing together the teeth and the lips “ _the lip is the coral, and the teeth the jewel_ ”. Every time Betty moved her head, the earrings brushed against her neck, evoking his mouth on her skin.

The thought of being bitten shouldn’t arouse her, but she imagined herself with Jean-François, in the throes of passion, sweaty, naked bodies, clawing fingers and head-spinning pleasure, a state so primal sharp teeth become an aphrodisiac. 

Her heart ached with longing for this kind of liberation, the complete opposite of her daily life as a governess where every action and word was calculated so as not to attract attention but also set the perfect example for her pupils. 

With a sigh, she sagged against her pillows. Her thighs rubbed together as she reread his first sentences, hearing them in his lightly-accented voice: “ _you are far too unique_ ”.

He went on to talk about his work in Dhaka, and even if he didn’t say so, she sensed his exasperation.

*

“I think we should wait before requesting a meeting,” the owner of the indigo plantation, Mr. Lelievre, said.

Mercier narrowed his eyes at him and bit the inside of his cheeks. Not for the first time, Lelievre was postponing the execution of a solution to his problems. Lelievre was a young man and had recently inherited this domain and its history of conflict with the locals. So far, Mercier had attributed his reluctance to inexperience bordering on ineptitude. But after spending days looking through dozens of old accountancy books, he was running out of patience, and his suspicions had grown. Lelievre was purposefully stalling their work. But why? 

“We will not wait before requesting a meeting,” Mercier stated. “In fact, we will go there first thing tomorrow.”

“But—”

A messenger entered the living room, “Some mail for you, sahib.”

Two letters, one from the French consulate, and one from Gabrielle which he knew concealed a message from Betty.

“First thing tomorrow morning,” Mercier repeated sternly. “Now if you will excuse me, this is a confidential matter.” 

Mercier’s favourite spot on the property was an old stone bench underneath a canopy. He lit a cigarette, taking a moment to relax and clear his mind before opening Betty’s letter.

_My hopes to have a whole day with you were shattered by your departure for Dhaka, but I nonetheless tried to make the most of it as you said. I ate food I had never tasted before: bhelpuri. I bought it from a street vendor thanks to a few Hurdu words Samaira taught me. I ate it directly from its newspaper cone! It was like an explosion of flavours! I tried a sort of ice cream too- kulfi. I met with your sister and we visited a park I had not seen before..._

Mercier imagined himself, right alongside her, ambling hand in hand through the streets of Calcutta, savouring spicy food and sweet kisses. And when she shared her excitement about attending a play next week, for her eldest pupil’s birthday, again he pictured himself at her side, perhaps in a private box, the coral pear drops drawing his attention to her slender neck… they would miss the third act. 

The sky turned to ink and the night bugs’ chant rose in the air. Mercier smoked the last of his tobacco, still lost in a world of his own, his eyes trained southward. Some 400 miles away, lay his heart. 

He opened Gabrielle’s letter next. 

_De Brem keeps coming over to our side of the house to talk to me. I told him to stop, but he’s very insistent. I asked Armand to come over but he has concerts most nights. I really don’t like this, Jean-François, he scares me. Can you do anything about it_?

Mercier clenched his fists. This mission to Dhaka was nothing more than de Brem getting rid of him to make a move on Gabrielle.

He’d wasted enough time here, he was going back to Calcutta as soon as possible. 


	7. Kissing

For her eighth birthday, Victoria had asked to go to the theatre. “And not a puppet one,” she’d insisted.

Lord Wigram bought tickets for _The Comedy of Errors_ produced by Calcutta’s very own English Theatre Enthusiasts Company.

“No theatre company worth its salt ever comes to Calcutta,” Lady Wigram lamented, not for the first time. Over her glass of wine, she scanned the foyer with contempt. 

Neither Victoria nor Betty cared that it was an amateur production. Their eyes shone as they entered the New Play House, taking in the lavish frescoes where characters of Hindu and Greek mythology met in pastoral settings. Shiva and Athena, Vishnu and Dionysus, surrounded by vines, green mountains and sparkling rivers.

The girl’s gasps of excitement made Lady Wigram amend her statement, “Of course, the important thing is that Victoria enjoys herself.”

In the last week, Lady Wigram had strived to get closer to the children by taking an interest in their activities rather than imposing her views of the perfect family. Victoria showed the most reluctance to her step-mother’s endeavour, perhaps because she’d known her real mother the longest. In an effort to buy her affection, Lady Wigram had taken her shopping for a new dress.

Victoria twirled, excited by the layers of polka dot tulle. Every attendee had dressed to the nines. Betty’s prettiest lace waist shirt didn’t rival their elegant outfits. Around her, amongst the voices and laughter, velvet purred and beaded silk trilled. Perfume and cologne mingled, pushed to and fro by paper fans.

She touched her coral earrings, her only luxurious possession.

A blond, mustachioed man approached them. Lord Wigram instantly straightened his back, and his grip tightened around his glass of ale.

“De Brem.” The men exchanged a rough handshake.

“My lord, what a pleasure to see you here, and with you family.” De Brem kiss Lady Wigram’s hand. 

Betty couldn’t shake the impression that there was something fake about de Brem’s demeanor-- he showed his teeth too much-- even more when his gaze settled on her.

“And you must be the eldest Miss Wigram.” He examined her from head to toe. 

“No, she’s just the governess,” Lady Wigram said. “This is our daughter--”

“We were going to our seats,” Lord Wigram interrupted. He ushered his family towards the stairs leading to the balcony.

They sat on red seats in the first row of the balcony. Beyond the ornate golden balustrade, they admired the musicians getting ready in the orchestra pit and the parterre filling up, and tried to guess what was going on beyond the stage curtains.

Across from them, on the right side of the balcony, Betty saw Gabrielle, elegant as alway. They waved at each other discreetly. Even though Betty knew Jean-François was still in Dhaka— she’d received a letter this morning— she searched for him in the seats. And was disappointed by his absence.

Program in hand, Betty spoke to Victoria about Shakespeare and Elizabethan theatre, as if she were teaching a class-- that was her job after all. 

When it became clear Victoria was too excited to pay attention to the lesson, Betty gave up. She searched for Gabrielle Mercier again. But she found her brother first. Jean-François’ gaze met hers across the theatre. Her heart leapt in her chest, and she sprung to her feet.

“What’s wrong, Betty?” Lord Wigram asked.

“I… I dropped something in the foyer. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She controlled her pace until she reached the corridor leading from their section to the other side of the balcony. She walked as fast as propriety allowed, her long strides ruffled her skirts. She zigzagged between other people, short of elbowing them. 

*

Jean-François met her halfway, at the top of the main staircase. He wanted to pull her into a kiss, but they stopped within a feet of each other. Spectators walked around and between them, blurs his brain barely registered. She was even more beautiful than he remembered.

“You’re back,” she said.

“I arrived from Dhaka about—” he glanced at his pocket watch— “twenty minutes ago. I left in a hurry.”

“What’s happened?” 

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“Ok.”

They stared at each other with matching beaming smiles and heaving chests. 

The usher at the top of the stairs left his post to guide a woman to her seat. As soon as they’d turned their backs, Jean-François pulled Betty into an alcove. 

The thick velvet curtain muted the world around them. They reached for each other’s hands naturally. In the darkness, her touch was everything. Palms against palms, fingers twined and untwined. A dance of fingers and caresses, hindered by her white gloves.

“I’m so happy to see you. To actually see you,” Betty whispered.

“I missed you.”

Betty kissed him, a short, impulsive kiss. He’d barely moved his own lips that she stepped away. He grabbed her by the waist, but controlled himself. His sight adjusted to the shadows.

“Betty…”

“I believe you said you would not let me stop next time.” 

She was asking to be kissed, fiercely, mercilessly. And she was asking for it with her eyes downcast and her cheeks aflame. With a finger under chin, Mercier tipped her head up. Her gaze was bright and challenging. Here she was. The woman who jumped in the water to save a boy, who sneaked out for adventures, who wrote him salacious letters. The woman he wanted more than anything. He caressed her cheek, and when she leaned into his touch, that swooping feeling in his stomach told him he was in too deep. 

“Kiss me again,” he demanded.

Betty pulled him to her by the lapels of his tuxedo. At last, he kissed her like he’d wanted to since their first encounter. 

He tried to pace himself, to savour the moment and impress her, but his head spun. His hands were everywhere, her cheeks, her hair, grabbing her hips, never letting go. She tightened her arms around his neck, curved her body into his. And that sound at the back of her throat was his undoing.

His fingertips rattled down the myriad of tiny buttons at the back of her blouse, more infuriating than a chastity belt. One more thing standing between them. He pulled at the bones of her corset. “Blasted thing.” 

Betty chuckled softly and kissed his chin. “Later.”

In the hall, ushers announced the beginning of the play. They exchanged another heated kiss, the last one, or so it was supposed to be; every time one of them tried to pull away, the other pushed forward. 

“We have to go,” she said, her mouth still drifting over his jaw. 

She kissed down his neck, and he thought of pushing her down to her knees. He swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbed under her lips.

“Meet me outside during the intermission. Behind the theatre.” he said, and kissed her again.

“Ok, I’m going now,” she mumbled against his lips.

He licked at the seam of her mouth, tantalizing her into an exploration of tongues. She pulled away, gasping for breath. 

“Wait.” He gently tuck stray strands of hair back into her bun, then kissed her forehead. 

After Betty had slipped out of the alcove, he stayed a moment longer, breathing deeply to regain his composure.

*

By the time Betty returned to her seat, only stage lights remained. The music began and no one enquired if she’d found her lost item.

Needless to say, she quickly forgot about the play. For one thing, she kept looking at Jean-François across the theater. The plot revolved around two sets of twins and mistaken identities, and that required more brains than she possessed at the moment. Her mind only wanted to replay their kisses and imagine the intermission. 

She ran her tongue over her lips, seeking the taste of him, delighting in their sensitivity

Her heart rate never slowed down. 

 

When the stage curtain fell and light came back to the balcony, Lady Wigram commented on Betty’s flushed cheeks. An excuse to go out, offered on a silver platter. “I need fresh air.”

“But I need the lavatory,” Victoria whined.

“I’ll go with you, dear,” Lady Wigram said, taking the little girl’s hand.

The warm night breeze carried aromas of ginger and masala from the street vendors amassed in front of the theatre. Hungry spectators ran down the steps to them. In the crowd, Jean-François caught her hand, and he guided her behind the theatre.

Only the full moon and a few windows illuminated the littered back street. Under other circumstances, she wouldn’t never have ventured here.

When she tried to kiss him, Jean-François spun her around in his arms. His fingertips grazed the nape of her neck, the sliver of skin between her hair and the top of her collar. That simple touch made her shiver.

“Are you enjoying the play?” he asked.

“I’ve never cared so little about Shakespeare in my life.”

“Sacrilegious,” he joked.

His fingers were still at her neck.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“This.” The top button of her blouse opened. She gasped, but let him continue. A second button, a third, a fourth. Her breath quickened, her skin tingled. He could rip her blouse open for all she cared now, his meticulousness was both maddening and endearing. 

“We don’t have much time,” she said.

“Just let me kiss you.” And his lips were there, at the top of her spine. Ravenous, open-mouthed kisses breathing fire into her marrow. 

Betty threw her gloves to the ground, and burrowed her fingers into Jean-François hair. He worked the buttons faster, trailing his mouth lower between her shoulder blades, kissing each vertebrae .

Betty pressed his free hand to her breast. Through the layers, neither felt much, a shape, a pressure, but knowing it was there was enough. Her knees buckled. She laid her palm flat against the cool bricks, rested her heated cheek on it. She arched her back, wantonly, shamelessly. His teeth grazed her throat. She would let him raise her skirts, she decided. And then he was holding her, tight against his chest, arms wrapped around her waist. “This is madness,” he whispered into her hair. 

Betty turned around in his arms, hugging him around the waist, her head rested on his chest. Her body was taut with arousal, she nuzzled his neck, rubbed her cheek against his shirt. His hands drifted lower, to her bum, squeezing and pulling her closer. He canted his hips against her as they kissed.

He rested his forehead on hers. 

“What’s wrong?” Betty asked.

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Like this? Here?”

Betty gazed over his shoulder, into the shadows, and hesitated. She borrowed further into his arms, shaking, as he caressed her hair.

She’d known a man who didn’t have such scruples. Her trust in Jean-François settled down in her chest. Like an anchor, something solid and safe.

“Do you want me?” she asked.

“Absolutely.” He kissed the back of her hand. “Think about me tonight,” he added, then kissed each of her fingers. Betty blushed at the suggestion, but knew she would do it. 

After the play, every bump in the road rocking the carriage accentuated the never-ebbing throb between her legs. 

She closed the door to her room, leaned against it, hastily pulling up her skirts, and she pushed the fingers he’d kissed against the seam of her bloomers. 


	8. Swimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bridges mentioned in this chapter are actually in Cherrapunji, not close to Kolkata. Learn more here: https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/root-bridges-cherrapungee

Two days after her encounter with Jean-François at the theater, Betty received some surprising news.

“Gabrielle Mercier requires your help,” Lady Wigram announced, entering the governess’ classroom.

Betty looked up from the stitching she was preparing for today’s lesson.

“She sent her carriage. Hurry up, girl.”

As Betty walked past her, Lady Wigram grabbed her upper arm. “I have yet to receive an invitation to that wedding.”

“I will mention it.”

Betty was so surprised, she headed downstairs without taking any of her things.

Lord Wigram came down the stairs at the same moment.

"I have some business in town," he said vaguely. "Will you be back for supper?"

"I-- I don't know."

He looked suspicious. "Surely Miss Mercier won't keep you over for supper. The girls will need you tonight.”

"Yes, your lordship. I'll do my best to be back by then."

Outside the house, a driver held open the door of a closed carriage. Betty stepped in, wondering what Gabrielle could possibly need her help with.

“Good morning, Miss Salinger.”

“Jean-François! But-- what are you doing here?”

“Whisking you away.”

Betty squealed with joy and threw her arms around his neck to kiss him. 

In a letter, she’d told him about lying to Lady Wigram about the earrings, saying she’d helped Gabrielle, and he’d found it was a perfect excuse to spend the spend the day with her.

“You crafty devil. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said.

“Can I get a clue?”

“You asked for companionship and adventure from me, and that is what you will have.”

The coach took them well outside the city limits. Betty stared through the window at these new landscapes unfolding before her eyes, feeling increasingly excited.

On a forest’s edge, they stopped in front of a small bungalow, the kind found all across the country, along the roads, for travelers to rest. This one was a bit more posh and cleaner. Jean-François explained it belonged to the French government, for those going into the jungle. 

Above a stone fireplace, two rifles crossed under the stuffed head of a nilgai, a large specie of antelope. Betty turned her back to it.

“You will need to change clothes for our adventure today.” He handed her a canvas bag. “Gabrielle lends you these. You may choose whatever you like.” 

Betty went into one of the bedrooms. Curious, she emptied the bag on the bare mattress. An assortment of skirts, shirts and hats tumbled down along with a pair of boots, all in various shades of white and brown. After some hesitation, she dared pick a toffee coloured skirt and a white button down, a bit too long so she tied it at the waist and rolled up the sleeves. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, with her pith helmet and flat shoes, she looked like an explorer. 

Jean-François too smiled when he saw her.

“Is this alright?” she asked, second-guessing herself. “Seems a bit improper.”

“I doubt we will meet other people. The important thing is that you are comfortable to walk in the forest.”

“I am.”

“Splendid.” 

Jean-François shouldered a khaki canvas bag and guided her down a narrow, beaten-earth path. The skirt swished around Betty’s calves, it was shorter than her usual skirts, made for walking in tall grass and mud, she enjoyed feeling the breeze up her legs. 

Their footsteps stirred the scent of moist soil and grass. Enormous spiky aloe veras and generous glossy ferns flanked the trail. They housed all manners of colourful caterpillars and iridescent-shelled critters. It was still early in the day, and mist lingered in the palms, sunlight streamed through it in soft beams. On the branches of eucalyptus and tulip trees, birds chirped to their heart’s content. 

Ripe mangoes hung in grapes from a tree. Jean-François picked two and showed her how to peel it with her teeth. Juice ran down their fingers and chins, the fruit flesh was warm, sun-gorged, and sweet. It was messy and wonderful.

“We are almost there,” Jean-François said after a while.

“Where?”

“Listen.” 

They stopped walking and stood in silence. Soon, the rush and gurgles of water reached her ears.

“A river?”

He smiled and took her hand, the excitement made him look years younger. The path curved to the right, and Betty saw a bridge arching over a flowing river.

Betty gasped. “Is that the bridge you told me about in your letter?”

“I wrote to you about a bridge?”

“You were drunk.”

“Ah. That letter.”

Betty bumped him with her shoulder. “It was charming in a way.”

“I saw this bridge in passing quite a while ago. I have wanted to come back since then.”

“So, you’ve been here before?”

“As I said, in passing, we were on a mission. I know the area a little bit, but I wanted to discover it with you.”

As they approached the bridge, Betty realized it was unlike any other bridge she had seen before. “It’s made out of roots!”

“Yes, the Indian rubber tree—”

“The _Ficus Elastica_. I read about it in a botany encyclopedia. Oh, it’s extraordinary!“ She smiled wide, pressing her hands to her cheeks as one would when looking at a puppy.

The rubber trees produced a series of secondary roots that the War-Khasis and War-Jaintias tribes pulled, twisted and tied to stretch across the river. It took years to accomplish, but these bridges lasted centuries, growing stronger over time.

“Can we walk on it?” she asked.

“I should hope so.”

Flat stones lay across the surface to facilitate the walk, moss covered them. On each side, roots of all sizes weaved together like a net, as high as Betty’s chest. She walked carefully, one hand clutching the side for support and the other gripping the back of Jean-François’ shirt. Under them, the river rushed by in great frothy gurgles. 

A pair of children climbed on at the other end and ran the length of the bridge, passing swiftly under Betty and Jean-François’ arms. Feeling safer, Betty walked faster, enjoying rather than worrying. Crossing this organic bridge, in the middle of a lush forest with a lovely man felt like something out of a fairy tale. Glee bubbled up in her throat from the sheer delight of being so free, and Jean-François laughed with her. 

Too soon, they reached the end, and he helped her down. He lifted by the waist and twirled her and held her until she was steady on her feet. They kissed with laughter on their lips. 

They walked a while longer, a trail parallel to the river, leading downstream. They crossed path with a few locals, Betty said hello to them, but most bowed their heads and stepped out of their way.

As the day progressed, nearing noon, the air grew hotter and the animals quieter. No breeze stirred the branches. Betty pulled on her collar, drops of sweat slid down her back. She wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Jean-François touched her temple where sweat soaked the fine hairs there. He offered her some water. 

"Do you want to stop? You may not be used to this kind exertion."

She huffed. “Try running after three kids all day."

“Fair enough.”

To hell with etiquette, this hat was only making her hotter and palm leaves provided shade enough. She pulled on the ribbon under the chin and fanned herself with the hat. "I must look a right mess."

"It suits you," he said. “I’m hot too. Let us find a nice spot to rest.”

They ventured away from the trail, towards the sandy bank. A month earlier, the river would have been overflowing from the rains. Some distance ahead, a cluster of rocks and boulders slowed the flow and filtered the larger debris. The water sparkled and meandered under the blue, cloudless sky. A hint of freshness rose from it, and enticed Betty. 

As Jean-François spread a canvas sheet on the ground, Betty quickly removed her shoes and stepped into the river. A sigh, almost a moan, escaped her lips at the relief of cool water on her swollen feet. 

“Will I have to rescue you from the river again?” Jean-François said.

Betty flustered and hurried out of the water. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

“No, no, Betty, I was joking. Here.” He took off his own shoes, rolled up his trousers and joined her.

She blinked in surprise; her whole livelihood hinged on being strait-laced every hour of every day, so she still wasn’t used to someone accepting her deviations from etiquette.

The water rippled around their ankles, then, as the ripples faded out, their reflection materialized on the shimmering surface. Both of them, together, shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling. The sight of it shaped their bond into something tangible. Real, but fragile. 

“You were so brave that day when you jumped to save the boy,” he said.

“Careless, more like.”

“No,” he said. “You were brave. I remember you said you would have liked to stay in the water because it was refreshing and you laughed…” 

The way he smiled at the memory, shyly, head bowed and lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes, made her heart soar.

“Thank you,” she said, “for saving me that day... and every day after that it seems.”

Jean-François fervently kissed the back of both her hands. 

“Shall we go for a swim?” she asked.

“Yes we shall, Betty Salinger,” he said fondly.

Betty hid behind a tree. Her heart hammered in her chest as she unbuttoned her shirt and removed her skirt. She hung them carefully over a branch. After a moment of hesitation, off came the petticoat and corset cover. Her hands shook as she released her corset and unclipped her stockings. Only her drawers and chemise remained, simple white garments with a thin trim of pink lace. With her arms and legs bare, the heat she felt could not be blamed on her layers of clothing anymore. 

Hesitantly, she stepped out of her makeshift dressing room, arms covering her chest. She had not let a man see her like this in five years. Jean-François had undressed down to his pants and undershirt. She could tell he was trying not to stare at her.

“Ready?” he asked.

She took his hand ,and they ran into the water, giggling, and dipped their whole bodies in one go. Jean-François emerged, shaking the water off his curls. 

“The water is gorgeous,” Betty said. 

She floated on her back among the water lilies and closed her eyes against the sun. Her body swayed to every ripple in the water. 

Before long, she became aware of her breasts peeking above the water, the wet linen of her chemise clinging to her skin. She kept her eyes closed, pretended she wasn’t aware of it and hoped Jean-François noticed. 

A branch fell into the river, and Jean-François stood up to remove it. The white cotton of his pants couldn’t hide the effect she had on him.

“So you really do like me,” she teased.

He studied her with a strange look in his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Who are you, Betty?”

“Pardon?”

“When we first met, you were suspicious of my intentions and I presumed you had been deceived by a man before, but there is more to that story.” He swam closer to her. “And your letters, they show a certain inclination. You’re not… innocent.”

Despite the cool water, Betty’s cheeks flared up. She’d promised herself she would never tell the story, not even to her husband-- if she ever married, which was unlikely in her position. 

Betty swam away, to a flat rock and hiked herself up on it. Under Jean-François’ expectant gaze, she fiddled nervously with the edge of her chemise. 

“You can trust me,” he insisted.

A lump rose in her throat. She wanted to open up to him.

“The first family I worked for, the man was a doctor. There was a regiment in our town, and soldiers often came to the house for ailments. It’s how I met… him. An officer, from Poland. He said he loved me, promised we would run away together and marry. We were caught, I lost my position, and he left me, heartbroken, without making good on any of his promises.”

“This is why you had to use Wigram’s obligation to you father?”

“I would never have found work again otherwise. If I were smart, I would not have come here with you.”

“You’re safe with me, Betty. I always keep my promises.”

“You’ve never promised me anything.”

“Because I don’t take it lightly. I can promise you I will not tell a soul about what happened with the Polish man.”

She held his gaze for signs of treachery-- he didn’t waver. 

After a moment, he sat on another rock, facing her.

“What kind of man do you like?” he asked.

“Honest. And kind.”

“I really do like you, Betty.”

Without thinking, she glanced at his crotch, down to a more modest size. 

“You said honest and kind, you didn’t say anything about size.”

She laughed.

“Was he a good lover?”

She blushed, not only because of the question, but because of the answer.

“Do you still want me?” she replied instead of answering.

“Yes.”

“I ain’t a trollop.”

“I know. It’s not easy for you women.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to do it behind the theatre? Because you thought I was innocent.”

“I didn’t want to do it there because you deserve better.”

“Is a river any better?”

“You tell me.”

Betty considered their surroundings, all these different trees and flowers, insects and animals, wild yet living in harmony. Nature at its purest. And she thought, if humans were stripped from their petty civilities and prejudiced morality, maybe this attraction between her and Jean-François would also be nature at its purest. 

“Would you kiss me again? Just a little,” she said.

Mercier slid off the rock, and crossed the river to her. Her breath hitched as he rose from the water. Leaning forward, he placed his hands on each side of her hips. Drops fell from his hair, down his nose, landing on his bottom lip. He slowly cocked his head to the side, her lips parted with an expectant sigh, and he pecked her Cupid’s bow.

“Not fair.”

“Payback’s fair.”

She pouted.

“You said ‘just a little’,” he pointed out.

“You know what I want.”

“You think me a mind-reader. I suspect you don’t even know yourself what you want.”

“I do… but I also know I shouldn’t want it.”

“Do you think what we’re doing is wrong?”

“Well, Lady Wigram—”

“No. What do you think?”

“I think I want more.” 

She kissed that spot again, at the base his throat, licked the water up his neck and nipped his jaw. He whispered a French curse before capturing her mouth.

His nails scratched the rock and the tendons of his arms tightened as he restrained himself from touching her body. She had no such qualms and slipped her hands under his shirt, caressing up his waist, exploring his ribs.

Since meeting her, he had not been with another woman, and his flesh reacted wildly to her touch. Like striking a match, sparks of pleasure kindling the heat in his stomach. He had to stop before it consumed him. He leaned back to break the kiss, but she pushed forward, and gently caught his lower lip between her teeth. Something like a growl echoed in his chest, he slid a hand through her hair, and licked at the seam of her mouth and she let him in. They tasted each other’s moans. He bucked his hips into her knees, and she opened them to accommodate his body. 

“Betty, I have to stop, before I can’t—” She interrupted his protest with an eager kiss, wrapping arms and legs around him. 

She wiggled her hips.

He gave up on resisting her.

With both hands on her bum, he drew her to him. Through the fabric of her drawers, he felt the heat of her sex. He couldn’t resist pressing against her, seeking friction on his hard length. She held him tighter and moved her hips. Mercier hissed against her mouth. He devoured her neck with kisses, travelling lower, licking along her collarbone and over the swell of her breast. Spurred on by her moans, he sucked through her wet chemise until her nipple pebbled between his teeth. 

Betty grounded desperately against him. Strangled noises, half moans, half sobs, escaped her throat as she clawed at his back. It wasn’t just water now soaking their underwear. 

He wanted to tear their clothes away, but even for that he couldn’t stop. Her scent, her kisses, the way she whispered his name, it all intoxicated him. He’d imagined making love to her slowly, but here he was, sweat beading down his spine, as he rutted between her legs. 

Betty bit his shoulder to muffle her cries. She was close. He cupped the nape of her neck to make her look at him. Her hair was wild, her pupils blown wide. 

“Please.”

He pushed her legs farther apart, pressing more directly into her. 

Between the folds of fabric, his thumb found her sensitive nub. He rubbed tight circles and admired the moment pleasure overwhelmed her. Her jaw dropped, her eyes fluttered shut, and he caught her last breath of release with a kiss. 

“Beautiful.”

She covered her mouth with her fingertips, a passing mortification that morphed into giggles. He kissed her over her fingers, sucked lightly on the tips. 

Mercier lowered himself in the water, he rested his head on her knee as he stroke himself. She ran her fingers through his hair, and he bit her inner thigh when he came. 

“And I was just thinking we’re not so different from animals,” Betty said. The mirth in her voice told him she wasn’t upset by what they’d just done. 

“Yes, animals.“ He nuzzled her neck, imitating a cat’s purr, and she scratched behind his ear. 

They spent the next hour, lounging idly under the sun, her head on his chest, his arms around her, altering their position only to sip water or grab a snack. Now that she’d revealed the truth about her past, they spoke more freely. An intimacy of minds and bodies, sharing doubts and caresses, secrets and kisses. Every time Mercier learned something new about her, his affection grew tenfold, and with it a protective streak.

“Have you seen another Frenchman at your house? De Brem, he’s blond with a mustache?” he asked.

“I think so, a few times.”

“Has he talked to you?”

“No. Jean-François, what’s wrong?”

He told her how de Brem sent him to Dhaka under false pretenses to harass Gabrielle. “When he was at my house… he saw a letter from you to me.”

“He knows? Why didn’t you say so before?” She raised herself on one arm, alarmed.

“I’m not sure. It may be nothing, but steer clear of him.” And he added, to reassure her, “I’m taking care of it.” 

He’d already sent a petition to his superiors and confronted de Brem himself about his behaviour. He couldn’t tell Betty de Brem was now in charge of the investigation on Wigram as Mercier had yet to reveal he’d been spying on her employer.

“It must make your work unpleasant,” she said.

“It already was.”

There was the boredom of this administrative tasks now that the thrill of being in a foreign country had passed, but every day he grew more uncomfortable with the European presence in India. In Dhaka, his mission had been to help a French plantation owner settle a dispute with the authorities to ensure the prosperity of his business. But his wealth came from abusing the local people; they toiled in the indigo fields, from dusk till dawn, under a relentless sun for a meager salary while he sipped brandy in his ornate living room. 

“They would be better off without us,” he summed up. “You saw how they fear us and hate us. With good reasons.”

“But I thought we were doing a good thing. Helping them.”

“How?”

“Well, we-- we employ them.”

“As servants, slaves almost!”

Betty flinched at his outburst. “I didn’t think…”

Of course, she believed the propaganda the British empire fed to its citizens. Elaborate intellectual arguments to justify the exploitation: bringing them democracy and a modern lifestyle. 

She hadn’t been in India long and always within the British district of Calcutta, surrounded by people who had made their fortune on the backs of Indians. She had not seen everything he had. He described the poverty and abuse he’d witnessed, but censored himself so as not to upset her too much.

Her forehead puckered and her lips set into a grim line. “That’s awful,” she said quietly.

He tugged her back to him, and gently stroke her back.

“Will you go back to France, then? If you don’t like it here,” she asked.

“Maybe. France or elsewhere. Somewhere new.”

“For adventures?”

“For adventure,” he agreed.

“Then you shall need companionship.”

“Indeed.”

They smiled at each other and kissed. There was a promise, on the tip of his tongue, but he wasn’t sure he could make it quite yet. _Soon_ , he thought, holding Betty closer.


	9. Shivering

Mercier and Betty reluctantly left their little corner of paradise by the river. The sun was nowhere near the horizon, but Betty had said she would be back in time for supper. And so, they returned to Calcutta. 

They stopped at Mercier’s house first so she might make herself presentable. As of now, her hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and the sun had reddened her cheeks and nose. There was something of the nymph about her dishevelled beauty. Mercier was entranced. Even her laughter was addictive, so clear and free, like never before. She wasn’t holding back from him anymore, and neither was he. 

Her hand was hot in his, as he guided her through his house to his rooms where she could clean up.

“Was this just an elaborate scheme to get me into your bedroom?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

He watched her look at his books, photos and cologne. He imagined her clothes fall to the wooden floor and her hair fan out on the white pillows. Her smile would brighten up the wine red walls and dark wood furniture.

“I like seeing you in here,” he said.

Betty crossed her wrists on the nape of his neck and sighed. “If only we had more time.”

“Next time, I will take you here directly and will not let you go.”

He wound his arms around her waist and hugged her. Her cheek was hot against his shoulder. 

“I don’t want you to let me go,” she whispered. 

How he wanted to give her everything she wanted. It could be weeks before they got to spend another day together. If he begged her to stay, she might. But there was too much at stakes. Betty loved her job and the children very much. Getting fired for spending the night with a man would break her heart and ruin her reputation. He would never allow that to happen.

Mercier kissed her deeply. 

Betty’s knees buckled, and he caught her.

“Are you all right?”

“A bit lightheaded. Must be your kisses.”

“Let me get you some tea.”

In the kitchen, Mercier met Gabrielle. She laughed when she saw him.

“Someone had an exciting day,” she said.

“I took Betty to the root bridge.”

“To propose?”

Mercier rolled his eyes. His sister frequently teased him about marriage. 

Although he wouldn’t admit it to Gabrielle, it was on his mind. But he and Betty were from different countries and different social classes. He wanted to leave India but her work was here. Would she even say yes? 

Above all, the memory of his first wife held him back. Whenever he thought about remarrying, Annemarie’s face popped up in his mind and triggered a wave of guilt. 

He didn’t tell his sister any of that.

“Gabrielle, I need you to invite Lord and Lady Wigram to your wedding.”

Mercier waited until Gabrielle had filled out an invitation to return to his bedroom.

He knocked on the door. “Betty, may I enter?” No answer. He knocked again. “Betty?”

He opened the door and found the room empty. He checked in the bathroom, she wasn’t there either. Then he noticed papers strewn about the floor: his files on Lord Wigram. 

“ _Merde_.”

 

Betty returned to the Wigram’s house in a state of utter confusion. In Jean-François’ room, she’d found files on Lord Wigram: official transaction papers and signed agreements, but also notes. Every visit, he’d written down his questions and suspicions about Wigram’s character. And there were notes about Betty herself. 

Had he been using her to spy on Lord Wigram? 

Perhaps she’d been right not to trust Jean-François in the beginning. 

There may be a good, rational explanation to it all, but right now Betty couldn’t think straight. Her head spun and her skin was clammy. She wanted nothing more than lie down and close her eyes.

In the entrance hall, Lady Wigram was waiting for her.

“Here she is, my husband’s mistress!” she announced with wide arm gestures.

“What?”

“Don’t you dare deny it, you little hussy. I know everything.” She staggered towards Betty, shaking a finger. “How long has it been? You thought you could take my place, didn’t you? Well, you won’t.”

Betty steadied herself against the door frame. Her vision blurred. She must be in the middle of a nightmare. Tears fell down her burning cheeks.

“You spent the day with him. I know you did. Do you think I’m stupid? Have you no shame?”

Her ladyship’s breath reeked of alcohol, and Betty turned her head away. 

“I’m not… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Betty replied weakly. 

She tugged on her collar, she needed air. She tried to push Lady Wigram away, but she didn’t budge. She grabbed Betty’s arms and squeezed until it hurt.

“Your ladyship, please—” 

Betty fainted.

 

Mercier walked the length of the room like a lion in a cage. Thirty-six hours ago, Betty had ran away from his house, and he hadn’t heard from her since then. He’d sent several messages to the statue of Ganesha and had even walked by the house at night. Twice. 

He needed to explain the situation to her. But no explanation would change the fact that he should have told her the truth sooner.

He wanted to give her time to think, but it was driving him mad.

“Brother, you’re miserable,” Gabrielle said. “Just go to her.”

“I can’t talk to her while she’s working.”

“Then pay a visit to Wigram, you might at least see her.”

With a knot in his stomach, he quickly shaved and dressed, then headed out.

At Wigram’s house, the butler informed him his lordship wasn’t at home. Mercier clenched his fists and breathed through his annoyance.

“When is he expected back?”

“I don’t know, _sahib_. He was not home since yesterday.”

Mercier needed a reason to at least step foot inside so he might catch sight of Betty, so he asked to leave a message. 

While the butler fetched a pen and paper, Mercier heard sobs coming from under the stairs. Curious, he approached and found the eldest girl, Victoria, hugging her knees. He had little experience interacting with children, but he couldn’t leave her like this.

“What’s wrong, girl?”

“Betty’s sick. I don’t want her to die like Mummy.”

Mercier’s stomach sank, and he immediately took off, running up the stairs, two at a time, toward Betty’s bedroom.

He pushed opened the door without knocking first. 

Betty lay in bed, eyes closed, thin blue veins spread across her eyelids. Her hair stuck to her damp forehead. Her lips were ashen.

_No! No, no, no!_

Mercier fell to his knees beside the bed and clutched her hand. “Betty, please. Betty open your eyes.”

The other girl, Winnifred, came into the room with Samaira. 

“She has a bad fever,” Samaira said.

“What did the doctor say?” 

“The _mensahib_ do not want the doctor.”

He touched Betty’s forehead, it was burning yet her hand was cold. She’d been like this for almost two days without proper medical care. 

He slammed his fist on the bed and went into full colonel mode.

“Call a doctor, now.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Lady Wigram said, entering the room.

The woman was still in her bathrobe, her hair frizzy and her eyes glazed over from drink. 

“Do you want her to die?” Mercier said, rising to his feet.

“Yes! She’s a worthless whore.” She spat on Betty. “I won’t let her take my husband away from me. He doesn’t care about her. He’s not even here.”

Her declaration confused him for a moment.

“Betty is not having an affair with your husband. She’s having an affair with me.”

Lady Wigram laughed, an ugly, bitter laugh.

“She is,” Mercier insisted.

“Then how do you explain this?” Lady Wigram pulled a piece of crumpled paper from her pocket.

He recognized it instantly. It was a letter Betty had written to him. 

“I found it, and many more in my husband’s desk.”

Mercier ruffled the hair at the back of his head. What was happening? Had Betty lied to him? Doubts and questions tumbled about in his brain. 

And then it clicked. Only one person knew about the letters and Wigram. A person who hated Jean-François too. De Brem. _Fils de pute_.

“Samaira, pack a bag for Betty,” Jean-François ordered. “I’m taking her with me.”

He picked up her frail body, bridal style, and carried her out of the room

He refused to lose another woman he loved.

 

Mercier held his breath as the doctor examined Betty. Not so long ago he’d imagined her hair fanned out on his pillow, he didn’t want it in such circumstances.

Beside him, Gabrielle stroke his back.

“She’ll be fine,” she said.

“You can’t know that.”

The doctor put his stethoscope away.

“It’s Malaria,” he announced. 

The diagnostic sounded like a gavel on hardwood, a condemnation, it rang in his ears. Each year, Malaria took too many souls.

A scientist had recently discovered it was transmitted by mosquitoes. Mercier cursed himself for taking Betty into the jungle. 

“You need to treat the fever and give her Quinine,” the doctor instructed. “And pray.”

Praying had not saved Annemarie. 

The pain he felt at the mere thought of losing Betty eradicated all his doubts: he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

Servants prepared a cold bath for Betty. Refusing to let anyone else touch her, Mercier carried her himself to the bathroom. He laid her in the water, still dressed in her nightgown.

Betty’s eyes fluttered open. Mercier’s heart leapt in his chest.

“ _Ma belle_?” Her cupped her cheek with his wet hand.“You’re in my house. You’re safe here. I’m taking care of you.”

She smiled weakly, eyelids drooping. She didn’t seem entirely conscious. 

He gently wiped her face with a damp flannel. “Here, doesn’t that feel good? Do you feel better?”

Her eyes closed, and she sagged into the bath. She had no muscle tone. Mercier got in, still dressed, and he held her so she wouldn’t sink. He cupped water into his hand and poured it over her head. He shivered in the cold water, but her body still burned. He would not let her go.

Betty opened her eyes with great effort. “You’re here,” she mumbled.

“Yes. You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

“Don’t promise.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and kissed her forehead. “I promise,” he repeated.

Gabrielle came in with a cup. An infusion of cinchona bark. Betty winced at the bitter taste even if it was mixed with soda and sugar. She drank slowly, Mercier holding the cup for her.

Betty passed out again after the drink. Mercier pulled her out of the water, dried her and dressed her with a clean nightgown from the bag prepared by Samaira. 

He sat by the bed and fought sleep, keeping watch, chin rested on his laced fingers. Another cup of infusion waited for her beside an uneaten plate of chicken rice. 

All night, he stayed there with an unbearable tightness in his chest.

The doctor came back the next day. “No improvement, I’m afraid.”

There were more baths, and always a _punkah wallah_ to keep the fans above the bed moving.

He read to her and cherished every moment she opened her eyes.

 

Mercier woke up to a hand touching his hair.

“Betty?”

“She’s still sleeping,” Gabrielle whispered. “Lord Wigram is here. He wants to talk to you.”

He caressed Betty’s still warm cheek, loathing to leave her.

“I don’t have time for him.”

“I’ll be right here with her,” Gabrielle said. “I’ll send for you as soon as she cracks open an eye.”

Mercier grunted as he stood up. His back ached from sleeping on the straight wooden chair. 

In the library, Lord Wigram paced the room, mumbling to himself. A ginger scruff covered his cheeks and his white button-down was stained.

“How is she?” he asked immediately upon seeing Mercier.

“She’s… I don’t know,” he answered with a lump in his throat. “I swear to God, if she dies it’s on you and your wife.”

“By jove, Mercier. You really are in love with her. She’s a sweet lass, alright, but she’s a governess, you don’t need to—”

Mercier interrupted him before he lost his temper. “Why don’t you tell me about your business with de Brem?”

Lord Wigram blanched, he sat down on the armchair and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

“You knew him in Bombay, didn’t you?” Mercier said, referring to his lordship’s past financial troubles.

“Why must this dratted business come back to haunt me?”

“Speak, Wigram.”

“De Brem was the one behind all of it. He came to me in Bombay with a scheme to get rich… I knew it was wrong but I agreed to it. We pretended to be agents of the East India company. He would contact people in France, send them to me in Bombay, and after a few days of negotiation—” he said this miming air quotes— “I’d say the company wasn’t interested in their business and they’d return to France. All of this for a fee, of course. Look, it wasn’t that much money.”

“You deceived them.”

“De Brem was worse. There was lots he wasn’t telling me about. The French authorities caught on to our scheme. But de Brem, somehow, he escaped any blame. Knew the right people, I suppose. He’s one sleazy bootlicker. I paid for my mistakes. I’m an honest man now.”

“Why did he come to Calcutta?” Mercier asked.

“I’m not sure, probably running off from another scam gone wrong. He’s deep in debts, I think.”

“He stole Betty’s letters from me and gave them to your wife. Why?”

Wigram ran a hand down his face. “He wanted me to team up with him again. I wouldn’t help him. He threatened me. I’ve been trying to stall him. I suppose he lost patience. Tried to come between me and my wife.”

“Where have you been these last few days?”

Wigram rounded his shoulders and bowed his head. “Hiding. I love my wife, I couldn’t bear to face her.”

Mercier showed the man no sympathy. He stood up and walked away.

Wigram ran after him. “Where are you going?”

“Back to Betty. I learned everything I needed to know. I will take de Brem down when she’s out of danger.”

“Will you tell her I’m sorry?” Wigram said.

Mercier didn’t reply.

 

Betty drifted in and out of consciousness. Delirious at times, she even hallucinated Jean-François taking care of her. Shivers and sweats wracked her body, and in her weakest moments, the thought of him kept her fighting.

The disease’s shroud fazed out a little each day, her surroundings became clearer.

“Betty? Do you want more tea?” Jean-François asked from his chair beside the bed.

His eyebrows were drawn in concern, he looked tired with dark circles under his eyes.

“You’re really here,” she said.

“How are you feeling?”

For the first time since she fainted, darkness didn’t threaten to pull her back under, but she was still too weak to put it into words. 

She caressed Jean-François’ cheek, stubble bristled under her palm.

He called for some food and tonic water. His gaze never left her as she ate. Every time she swallowed a spoonful of soup, he smiled.

“Colour is returning to your cheeks,” he said.

He cleared the dishes away and took her hands in his. “There is something I need to talk to you about. Do you feel well enough?”

The serious look on his face made her stomach drop, she wouldn’t be able to rest without knowing what this was about. “Tell me.” 

“I need to apologize. I should have told you sooner that I was investigating Lord Wigram.”

“Were you using me to spy on him?”

“I admit that thought crossed my mind when we first met. It did not last long. In fact, I think instead of seeing you to spy on him, I was spying on him to see you.”

He squeezed her hand as if to communicate his sincerity. He went on to explain how he got this assignment and de Brem’s involvement. 

She didn’t doubt him. He’d proved already his feelings were genuine.

“Apology accepted,” she said. 

“Thank you.” He kissed the back of her hands. “Do you want to keep working for Wigram?”

Betty hesitated. There was much to consider. A governess couldn’t have a liaison with a man, nor get married. But she had nothing beside her job. She didn’t know what Jean-François’ intentions were.

Weariness swept over her as these thoughts jostled in her mind.

“Dunno how I can keep working for someone who would’ve left me to die. But the children… and there’s you. You want to leave India.”

“I don’t want to leave without you,” Jean-François said.

“And I don’t want to stay here without you.”

“We don’t have to decide anything today. We can figure it out later. Together.”

His words sent her heart aflutter, but she had to remind herself they were only that— words.

“Yeah. Just, please, don’t ever hide something from me again. I need you to be honest with me, even if it could hurt me, I’d rather know than be mislead.”

“I promised you, you are safe with me. But in the spirit of honesty, I should tell you that I… I am in love with you.”

Betty let out a shaky laughter and pressed a palm to her heart. “I love you too. So much.”

She scooted aside to make room for him on the bed. They embraced, legs and arms entwined, looking into each other’s eyes.

“You called me something,” Betty said, “in the bath, I think.”

“ _Ma belle_?” 

“Yes. Say it again, please.”

Jean-François rubbed his nose against hers. “ _Ma belle_. My beautiful. _Meree sundar_ ,” he added in Hindi. The words tickled her lips.

“Yours.”

And they kissed, a kiss infused with the fear of losing each other. A breath of life. Desperate, yet hopeful. 

A knock at the door interrupted their moment. Jean-François left the bed, and Betty fixed her nightgown.

Samaira came in and rushed to hug Betty. The three kids followed her and jumped on the bed, giggling.

“Oh, my sweets, how lovely to see you,” Betty exclaimed.

Lady Wigram stepped into the room, sober now but sporting a good headache judging by the way she rubbed her forehead.

Betty stared daggers at her.

“I’m sure you don’t care to see me,” Lady Wigram said. “I certainly didn’t want to come. But the children asked… I did it for them… I’m so sorry, Betty.”

Betty nodded. 

She may never get along with her ladyship, but perhaps the children were in good hands after all.

Her conversation with Jean-François and the subsequent visit had taken a toll on Betty’s energy. She closed her eyes and drifted off as soon as her visitors left the room.

 

She slept peacefully, for hours, no hallucinations or shivers disturbed her. For the first time in four days, she woke up rested. 

She noticed the scent of sickness clinging to her and, for the first time too, she had the energy to get rid of it. 

In lukewarm water, she scrubbed her body and washed her hair. She felt renewed. As she rubbed rose oil onto her skin, the caress of her own hand made her tingle. She needed Jean-François. 

Outside the window, night had settled. She assumed he had gone to bed, but a maid informed her he was on the roof.

In lieu of a dress, Betty simply wrapped a long piece of muslin fabric around her torso, and she let her hair fall down her back. 

At the top of the stairs leading to the roof, she paused. Under the full moon, Jean-François was sitting on large cushions strewn about an ornate rug. He was looking to his side, seemingly hypnotised by the bed linen swaying on the clothesline in the balmy breeze. She admired his fine profile, the slope of his nose and sharp jawline. Her fingers hitched to rediscover them.

The sound of distant chatter and call to prayer covered the dull noise of her naked feet on the concrete. She’d reached the edge of the rug when he noticed her.

“Betty, you should not be out here. You need to rest.”

Standing before him, she gestured for him to remain seated. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. But there’s something else I need you for.”

A candle flame flickered in its silver lantern, creating a pulsing lattice pattern on her makeshift dress.

Betty took a deep, steadying breath, and untucked the fabric around her chest. Slowly, it unravelled and slipped down her body. She stood completely nude in the moonlight. 

Jean-François’ jaw dropped and his eyes glazed over. 

She straddled his thighs. His hands hovered as if he didn’t know where to touch her first, or if he was even allowed to. Betty cupped his hand to her cheek. 

“I’m safe with you,” she whispered.

And then his hands and lips were everywhere. From the crook of her elbows to her earlobes and navel, he covered her in kisses and tender caresses. 

Through it all, she somehow managed to remove his shirt. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing her naked chest to his. The muscles in his back shifted under her palms. She loved his bones, and the dry, woodsy scent of his skin.

They breathed in sync, rib cages expanding as their hearts thumped to the same beat.

She guided his hands to her breasts, finally feeling them, large and warm, on her skin rather than through layers of fabric. The same beautiful hands that had taken care of her through sickness.

“I love you,” she said.

Jean-François dropped his head to her shoulder with a ragged sigh. He kneaded her breasts roughly, squeezing a nipple between his fingers. 

“ _Ma belle_ ,” he murmured between kisses up her neck.

As he captured her mouth, his palms fell to her knees and inched higher up her legs. His touch became heavier, fingers pressing into her flesh, as he neared the apex of her thighs. All of Betty’s senses zeroed in on the strokes of his thumbs along her hip bones, and the slight bite of his fingernails into her skin.

“May I?” he asked.

In a strangled voice, she said, “yes.” 

Betty opened her legs wider, and Jean-François reclined back on one hand to better watch his own fingers play over her wet folds. 

His touch was too light at first, stoking the fire in the pit of her stomach. When he found what made her gasp, he pleasured her mercilessly.

“Move your hips,” he said.

And there was something so wonderfully indecent to fucking herself on his long, elegant fingers.

Betty grasped his shoulders as she met his plunging digits faster and faster until her thighs quivered and bliss shot up her spine like a firework.

Jean-François caught her in his arms and held her close, stroking her back through the last tremors.

Betty’s hand wandered down his chest and stopped, shyly, just above his waistband.

She wanted to give him the same pleasure and satisfaction he’d given her, but she’d never touched him before. 

Jean-François sucked in a sharp breath as only the tip of her little finger brushed the bulge in his trousers. She hid her blushing face in the crook of his neck and cupped him fully. She loved how he surged under her palm. 

When she reached to undo his buttons, he stopped her.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

“Not at all.” He kissed her forehead. “I think I want to marry you first.”

“What?”

“If you want. I am not all talk like that man you knew. Gabrielle’s wedding is this Sunday, we could do it too— unless you would prefer— or if you don’t…”

“I do. Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes!” 

They exchanged a celebratory kiss that soon heated up. Betty was still astride him and felt him stir in his trousers. She wanted him even more now.

“What does it matter? I’m not a virgin.”

“I don’t know. I want to do the right thing.”

“In that case, I’ll only use my hand. I promise.” She rested her hand over his erection. 

“Who knew you were such a wanton strumpet?” he joked. 

“Only for you,” she replied, batting her eyelashes.

She applied a little more pressure. 

“Oh, you will be the death of me and my principles.”

Giggling, she unbuttoned his trousers and teased him through the material of his pants.

“What if— I know ‘The Kama Sutra’ says only eunuchs are supposed to do such things, but... I’d like to try.” 

The _Auparishtaka_.

Jean-François grazed his thumb along her bottom lip and her tongue darted out to catch it. His eyes darkened. 

“You won’t think me depraved, will you?” she asked.

“No. Never.”

He hastily removed his trousers and pants. 

Willing her blush away, she made herself look at his cock. Hard. For her. She stroked it tentatively, loving the way it throbbed in her hand. 

He palmed her breasts and thrust up into her fist. She knew he was eager for her mouth, but he waited.

Heart hammering in her chest, she lowered her head to his crotch. She slithered her tongue up the underside of his cock and kissed the tip wetly.

He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth.

She had only ever done this once for another man. A desperate attempt to keep him interested in her. To make sure he would keep his promises. It had not been love, in any shape or form, she knew that now.

Jean-François gently gathered her hair away from her face. She locked eyes with him as she wrapped her luscious lips around his cock. His taste filled her mouth. So personal. So intimate. From now on, no other woman would ever know this taste. That thought thrilled her, and she took him in deeper.

Jean-François quietly guided her rhythm. Her confidence grew with each praise and French curse. 

What she lacked in experience, she made up for in dedication. 

She redoubled her efforts, thinking of what she’d read: “the pressing”, “the kissing”, “the rubbing”. And then “the sucking of a mango fruit.” Saliva ran down her chin, slurping noises filled her ears. His grip tightened in her hair. “The swallowing.” 

His grunt of release echoed in the night, louder than the dog’s barks down in the streets. He fell on his back.

Betty wiped her mouth and scooted up to kiss him. And they laughed for no reason but the happiness flooding their chests.

She didn’t feel dirty or ashamed. She didn’t worry about getting caught. She wasn’t scared he would leave. 

She was at peace.

And they fell asleep on the roof, naked bodies entwined under the stars.


	10. Eloping

The next week passed by in a whirlwind.

Gabrielle agreed to her brother co-opting her wedding— anything to make him happy. “As long as Betty’s dress doesn’t outshine mine.”

On such short notice, Betty’s dress could only be simple but it still would be the most elegant thing she ever wore. She only requested that it had as few buttons as possible.

When Betty wasn’t working with the seamstress, she helped Gabrielle plan the reception. She was a nervous mess through it all, she couldn’t imagine planning a whole wedding from the start and being in this state for weeks. She was glad it was happening this way and only regretted her family’s absence.

She spared time for Victoria, Winnifred and Oliver as well. Leaving them was harder than she’d imagined. She put aside her antipathy for Lady Wigram to teach her a few childrearing techniques and help her find a new governess. She eased the transition as best as she could. 

Meanwhile, Jean-François worked hard to build a case against de Brem and make arrangements with his superiours. He requested a new position and would take a leave of absence until it was settled.

At night, they shared quiet moments on the roof and made plans for the future. All the countries they would visit and adventures they would have. She wanted to see his estate in France he had often talked about in his letters. And he hoped to befriend her sister as well as Betty had Gabrielle. 

 

Betty anticipated to be even more nervous on the day of the wedding, but she walked down the aisle with orange blossoms in her hair and serenity in her heart. 

She smiled uncontrollably at the sight of Jean-François in his ceremonial uniform. He assumed his usual stoic pose, but he was more nervous than her.

When they held hands in front of the priest, the only thing that mattered was their promise to love and cherish one another.

 

Generous garlands of purple organza, pearls and chrysanthemums decorated the reception hall. On a stage, Gabrielle’s husband, Armand, and his Franco-Indian band kicked off the party. The guests danced to a lively melody of piano, sitar, violin and tabla drums while servants refilled their glasses with the best French wine.

Betty and Jean-François were tipsy on champagne and happiness, and unable to keep their hands off each other. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and he would have permanent wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. 

Friends, colleagues and acquaintances congratulated the newlyweds. Betty didn’t miss the glances at her belly when they expressed surprise at their hurried nuptials, or the thinly veiled accusations that she’d married for money. She held her head high and Jean-François kept a protective arm around her. And they pulled out their tongues like a pair of children as soon as those people had turned their backs.

“Mrs. Mercier?” Jean-François asked.

“Yes, my love?”

“Shall I whisk you away again?”

“Please do.”

He grabbed her hand and they rushed out of the reception hall as fast as they could.

 

They climbed in a closed carriage. The driver closed the door, and they immediately found each other’s mouth. They kissed in a way that would have been most inappropriate in front of the priest.

Betty’s blood tingled with adrenaline, alcohol and excitement. 

“You look so beautiful,” he said. “I like your dress, it’s very… accessible.”

He brushed his finger along the deep V at the back, sending a shiver down her spine. 

The carriage started rocking slowly and Jean-François slid down the bench. 

“Bit late to get down on one knee, I’ve already married you,” Betty joked. 

“No, this is something else, _ma belle_.” He offered her a smoldering gaze that made her breath catch in her throat.

Betty let out a surprised “oof!” when he tugged her to the edge of the seat. Slowly, he pushed her dress up her legs. She bit her bottom lip, watching him expose her legs and gather the layers of cream satin around her hips.

“Here?” she asked when he reached for the waistband of her drawers.

“If you want.”

Her only answer was to raise her hips to help him remove the undergarment. He discarded it on the other seat.

Looking at her with heavy-lidded eyes, he coaxed her knees apart. Already, Betty’s chest heaved against the confines of her corset.

She gasped at the first kiss on her inner thigh. A kiss that turned into a bite, and she dug her nails in the leather of the seat.

“Blimey!”

His mouth moved leisurely up her thighs. Even as she buried her blushing face in her hands, she felt herself clench and throb in anticipation.

Despite her initial mortification, her response to the first lick was a deep, throaty moan. She arched her back, offering herself. He rewarded her with elaborate French kisses designed to slowly kindle her arousal. 

Betty soon found herself luxuriating in the feel of his tongue. She slouched down the bench and let her head fall back.

A loud horn reminded her to school her features. Anyone could see her through the windows. These streets were always so bloody busy. But if she was being honest, it added to the thrill. 

Wherever they were going, she hoped it would be a long ride.

But Jean-François’ ministrations never sped up. He savoured her with broad strokes of his tongue and sharp taps to her clit. And she dripped on the seat and bit her own gloved fist.

Whimpers escaped from the back of her throat. She squirmed with impatience. 

He replaced his mouth with his fingers, just as teasing, and looked up at her.

“Are you all right?”

Oh, the sight of him with his impeccable hair and uniform, framed by her thighs, picture perfect safe for his lips, glazed with her juices. And that knowing smirk. 

Betty ran her fingers through his hair, from his forehead to the back of his head, messing it on purpose. He chuckled and returned to his task. 

When his thumb joined his tongue in a fast rhythm, she gripped his curls tighter and cursed. 

But the carriage stopped, and she heard the driver hop down his seat. 

Jean-François hastily wiped his mouth and rearranged her dress. 

If her flushed face didn’t give them away, her unmentionables on the floor would.

 

They’d stopped at the port. On the brown waters on the Hoogly river, a large steam ship of the Peninsula & Oriental company awaited its passengers. The black funnel smoked lazily. 

Only then did Betty notice the suitcases strapped to the roof of the carriage. 

“Are we going on an adventure?” she said, voice high with glee.

“Absolutely.”

“Where?” 

“I don’t know. I asked for tickets to the next ship leaving India,” he answered. “Excuse me, boy, what is this ship’s destination?”

The sailor looked at them like they were crazy. “Why, it’s going to New Zealand, Sir.”

“Onwards, then,” she declared.

Jean-François picked her up in his arms, bridal style of course, to walk up the gangway leading on board. Betty laughed out loud, and Jean-François nearly dropped her from laughing too. 

It seemed fitting that he was carrying her over the river from which he’d once saved her.

 

Whereas most people gathered at the back of the ship to wave goodbye, they headed for the bow.

The deep vibration of the foghorn announced their departure.

Waves rocked the ship and a salty mist sprayed Betty’s face. Her dress and veil whipped about in the wind, petals from her crown floated off like snowflakes. She felt like she could fly. 

Jean-François hugged her from behind, and they watched Calcutta go by.

A tightness developed in her chest as the white and gold city disappeared into the twilight.

Jean-François kissed the top of her spine. Betty turned in his arms, and he rested his forehead against hers. 

“One day, we will come back to India,” he said, as though he’d read her thoughts. 

“I hope we will.” She breathed in deeply the salty air. “But for now I don’t want to be melancholy.”

She tilted her head back and parted her lips in invitation.

The taste on his tongue reminded her of what they’d been doing. She arched her back, molding her body to his, she stroked up his neck and delved her fingers into his hair. 

Jean-François groaned. He grabbed her hips.

Around them, a few passengers clucked their tongues and cleared their throats meaningfully, but it only made them laugh and kiss some more. 

“What do you want to do, _ma belle_?”

“The lotus.”

“The lotus?”

“And the mare. And the splitting of a bamboo.”

Jean-François chuckled, recognizing the different kinds of congress described in “The Kama Sutra”.

“In that order?” he asked.

“I don’t know, let’s improvise.”

“Shall we find our cabin?”

 

Because of the last minute purchase, the choice of cabin had been limited, Jean-François explained. She didn’t need anything more luxurious as long as it was clean. A faint scent of carbolic soap and citrus oil hung in the air. 

A bellhop put their luggages in the armoire. 

Jean-François quirked an eyebrow at the two twin beds.

A wrought iron railing ran the length of both beds to protect passengers from falling off on stormy nights. She liked it much better than the bunk beds she’d had to share with the children on the journey from England to India.

“Guess we’ll have to snuggle up,” Betty said.

“Fine by me.”

Jean-François paid the young man a tip, and they were left alone.

On the porthole, water drops shone like crystals in the pink and orange rays of the setting sun. In this light, Jean-François’ eyes were a soft amber brown. She caressed his clean-shaven cheek.

“What now?” he asked.

“I think you should undress your wife.”

He’d seen her nude before. He’d undressed her when she was sick and ripped her buttons in a dark alley. This was different. Reverent.

He removed what was left of her flower crown, and her veil, then every comb in her hair, letting her curls spill down her back. 

Between her shoulder blades, he laid gentle pecks as he undid the few buttons of her dress. He draped the gown carefully over the armchair. 

Betty showed the same devotion as she divested him of his decorated military jacket, of his shirt and trousers.

Soft sighs and a solemn silence followed each movement, each item removed. 

Her skin goose-pimpled with every feathery stroke of his fingers. Over her ribs as he raised her petticoat. Down her calves as he removed her stockings.

She slid her hands up his waist to push up his undershirt, and he pulled it the rest of the way off. In the night, on the rooftop, she had not seen the scars on his chest. 

He tensed under her curious stare.

“I have seen things, Betty. I’ve lost things, I’ve done…” He swallowed thickly.

She kissed a scar just below his collarbone. “Let’s be fiercely happy.”

He held her close, anchoring himself to her. 

The ship groaned and creaked. They swayed with the billowing hull and never let go. 

Above his shoulder, she saw his back reflected in the vanity mirror. She traced his spine to the dimples above his firm buttocks. Heat pooled in her belly. She pressed her teeth to his freckled shoulder. 

“Let’s see you too,” he said and spun her around. 

She marvelled at the sight of his hand cupping her breast, the dents in her flesh where he clasped possessively, the gold wedding band against her pale skin, and his other hand spanning the space between her hip bones. 

He devoured her neck with kisses, but kept his eyes trained on their reflection. He was hard against her bum. 

Her hips bucked when we touched her between her legs. 

“Are you ready, _ma belle_?”

He’d been preparing her in the carriage, she realized, and she was glad for it because she couldn’t wait to feel him inside her. She’d been aroused for an eternity, it seemed.

She had half a mind to let him bend her over the vanity, but he was too much of a gentleman for that. Maybe later.

The cool bed sheets crinkled under them. He covered her body with his. 

A sudden worry spiked through her stomach: she hadn’t done this in four years and it had hurt the first time.

“Stay with me,” he entreated.

She opened her eyes and sought his hands. He entwined their fingers above her head.

“I’m here,” she said.

“Perfect.”

He smiled down at her and she let herself drown in his gaze. He started sliding, hot and firm, against her slit. She sucked in a breath, tightened her knees into his sides. 

He let the hunger grow. She could feel it so sharply, the emptiness. The want. Desire surged in her blood.

And then, inch by inch, he pushed until she’d taken all of him. They stilled. Ragged breaths mingled between their mouths. He pulsed in her.

Carefully, as if he might break her, he rocked in the cradle of her legs. 

“All right?”

“More. Please.”

The smallest keening sound escaped from the back of her throat and triggered a frenzy. Greedy and generous all at once. Kissing. Groping. Biting. Marking each other.

Their hips met like waves crashing against the ship.

She muffled her moans behind her hand, but he pulled it away. 

“Tell me how it feels,” he demanded between panting breaths.

She could hardly form words. 

“Good,” she managed.

He shook his head, there was something desperate in his eyes.

“It feels-- ah!-- Right. It feels right. So right.” She teared up as she said it.

“Yes. Right. _Je t’attendais_.”

Sweat beaded on his forehead. His damp curls dragged across her chest with every relentless thrust.

Betty held on to the bed railing with a white-knuckle grip. An image of being tied to it flashed across her mind. 

Her head swam. Even as pleasure crested in her, she was insatiable. She urged him to go faster, harder, she wanted to feel him for days. She didn’t care anymore who heard their moans and groans.

“Betty?”

“Almost. Don’t stop.”

She slipped a hand between them. He made his thrust longer, deeper. He kissed her, more teeth than lips, and grunted deeply. Her toes curled, her thighs quivered. He trembled in her arms and spilled in her. She followed with a strangled cry.

He collapsed on top of her, and she wrapped her legs around his to keep them connected.

“Let’s not leave this bed until we reach New Zealand,” she said.

“Best idea I ever heard.”

His chest vibrated with laughter against hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and sticking with this fic even if I couldn't update for a while. I appreciate everyone who left comments and therefore encouraged me to keep writing :D Please let me know if you want more of this ship!


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